
Class JEKAIiiiil 
Book ;g(^fe 

F'RKSRNTKl) I5Y 



WITH LIFE AND :N-0TES 

BV 

ILLUSTRATED, 



i3> 




Whistle . and tH come to joa, my lad 



PHILADELPTiL 



jyu.^^ /^t-c3^ 



POETICAL WORKS 



OF 



ROBERT BURNS, 



LIFE, NOTES, AND GLOSSAKY: 



A, CUNNINGHAM, ESa 



3Kcnij 3Uti3trEtintiB nii It^d 



PHILADELPHIA : 
DAVIS, PORTEU & COATES., 

21 SOUTH SIXTH STREET. 
1866. 



^ V. 



MR. HUTCHESON 
28«y'03 




fife of Robert ^um. 



Suitiatorj ^Icnrarlis. 



Though the dialect in which many of the happiest effusions 
of Robert Burns are composed be pecuHar to Scotland, yet 
his reputation has extended itself beyond the limits of that 
country, and his poetry has been admired as the offspring of 
original genius, by persons of taste in every part of the sister 
islands. It seems proper, therefore, to write the memoirs of 
his Ufe, not with the view of their being read by Scotchmen 
only, but also by natives of England, and other countries where 
the English language is spoken or understood. 

Robert Burns, was, in reality, what he has been represented 
to be, a Scottish peasant. To render the incidents of his humljle 
story generally intelligible, it seems, therefore, advisable to pre- 
fix some observations on the character and situation of the order 
to which he belonged — a class of men distinguished by many 
pecuUaritics : by this means we shall form a more correct notior 
of the advantages with which he started, and of the obstacles 
which he surmounted A few observations on the Scottish 
peasantry \vi\l not, perhaps, be found unworthy of attention in 
other respects — and the subject is, in a great measure, new. 
Scotland has produced persons of high distinction in every 
branch of philosophy and htcrature : and her history while a 
separate and independent nation, has been successfully explored. 
But the present character of the people was not then formed ; 
the nation then presented features similar to those which the 
feudal system and the Catholic religion had diffused over 
Europe, modified, indeed bj^ tlie peculiar nature of her territory 
and climate. The Reformation, by which such important 
changes were produced on the national character, was speedily 
followed by the accession of the Scottish monarchs to the 
English throne ; and the period which elapsed from that acce** 



2 LIFE OF BIJKNS. 

Fii'n to the Union, has been rendered memorable chiefly for 
those bloody convulsions in which both divisions of the island 
were involved, and which in a considerable degree, concealed 
from the eye of the historian the domestic history of the people, 
and the gradual variations in their condition and manners. 
Since the Union, Scotland, though the seat of two unsuccessful 
attempts to restore the house of Stuart to the throne, has 
enjoyed comparative tranquillity; audit is since this period that 
the present character of her peasantry has been in a great 
measure formed, though the political causes affecting it are to 
be traced to the previous acts of her separate legislature. 

A slight acquaintance with the peasantry of Scotland will 
serve to convince an unprejudiced observer, that they possess a 
degree of intelligence not generally found among the same class 
in°he other countries of Europe. In the very humblest con- 
dition of the Scottish peasants, every one can read, aiid most 
persons are more or less skilled in writing and arithmetic ; and 
under the disguise of their uncouth appearance, and their 
peculiar manners and (balect, a stranger will discover that they 
possess a curiosity, and have obtained a degree of information, 
corresponding to these acquirements. 

These advantages they owe to the legal provision made by 
the Parhament of Scotland in 1646, for the estabhshment of a 
school in every parish throughout the kingdom, for the express 
purpose of educating the poor — a law which may challenge 
comparison with any act of legislation t6 be found in the records 
of history, whether we consider the wisdom of the ends in view, 
the simplicity of the means emploj^ed, or the provisions made 
to render these means effectual to their purpose. This excellent 
statute was repealed on the accession of Charles 11. 1660, 
together with all the other laws passed during the Common- 
wealth, not as being sanctioned l>y the royal assent. It slept 
during the reigns of Charles and James II., but was re-enacted, 
precisely in the same terms, by the Scottish Parhament, in 
1696, after the Revolution ; and this is the last provision on the 
subject. Its effects on the national character may be considered 
to have commenced about the period of the Union, and doubtless 
it co-operated with the peace and security arising from that 
happy event, in producing the extraordinary change in I'avour of 
industry and good morals, which the character of the common 
people of Scotland has since undergone. 

The church establishment of Scotland happily coincides with 
the institution just mentioned, which may be called its school 
establishment. The clergyman, being everywhere resident iu 
his particular parish, becomes the natural patron and supei- 
intendant of the parish scnool,. and is enabled in various ways 
to promote the comfort of the teacher, and the proh-ciency of 
the scholars. The teacher himself is often a candid-ate tor holy 
orders, who during the long course of study and probation 
required in the Scottish church, renders the time which can be 
spared from his professional studies useful to others as well as to 
himself by assuming the respectable character of a schoolmaster. 
It is common for the estabbshed scluols, even in the country pa- 



LIFE OF BURNS. 3 

riehes of Scotlanfl, to enjoy tho moans of classioal instruclion ; 
and noanyof tho farmors,and some ovon of tho cottagers, submit 
to much privation, that they may obtain, for one of their son'< at 
least, the precarious advaiitajro of a learned education. Tlie 
difficulty to besurmountedaiis.es, indeed, not from the expense 
of instructing tlicir chilciren, but from the ehp.r;j;e of supporting 
them. In the country ])arish schools, the English langaiage, 
writing, and accounts, are generally taught at the rate r.f six 
shillings, and Latin at the rate of ten or twelve shillings, per 
annuni. In the towns the prices are somewhat higher. 

It would be improper in this place ts enquire minutely into 
the degree of instruction received at these seminaries, or to 
attempt any precise estimate of its effects, either on the indi- 
viduals who are the subjects of this instruction, or on tho 
community to which they belong. That it is on the whole 
favom-ablo to industry and morals, though doubtless with some 
indi%'idual exceptions, seems to be proved by the most striking 
and decisive experience ; and it is equally clear, that it is the 
cause of that spirit of emigration and of adventurs so pre- 
valent am»ng the Scotch. Knowledge has, bj' Lord Verulam, 
been denominated power ; b}'- others it has, with less projiriety, 
been denominated virtue or happiness ; we may with confidence 
consider it as motion. A human being, in proportion as he is 
informed, has his wishes enlarged, as well as the means of 
gratif3'i;ig those wishes. He may be considered as taking 
w"ithir. the sp!iere of his vision a large portion of the globe on 
which we troad, and discovering advantage at a greater distance 
on its surfwe. His desires or ambition, once excited, are 
stimulatod by his imagination ; and distant and uncertain 
objects giving ft'ecr scope to the operation of this faculty, often 
acquire, in the mind of the youthful adventurer, an attraction 
fi-om their very distance and uncertainty. If, therefore, a 
greatei- degree of instruction be given to the peasantiy of a 
country comparatively poor, in the neighbourhood of other 
countries rich in natural and acquired advantages ; and if the 
barriers be removed that kept them separate, emigration from 
the former to the latter will take place to a certain extent, by 
laws nearly as uniform as those by which heat diffiises itself 
among the surrounding bodies, or water finds its level when 
Ipft to its natural course. By the articles of the Union, the 
barrier was broken down which divided the two British nations, 
and knowledge and poverty poured the adventurous natives cA 
the north over the fertile plains of England ; and more especially 
over the colonies which she had settled in the east and in the 
west. The stream of "population continues to flow from the 
north to the south, for the causes that originallj' impelled it 
continue to operate ; and the richer country is constantly invigo- 
rated bj' the accession of •an informed and hardy race of men, 
educated in poverty, and prepared for hardship and danger ; 
patient of labour and prodigal of life. 

The pi-eachcrs of the Reformation, in Scotland were disciplei 
of Calvin, and brouj-'ht with them the temper as well as tho 
tenets of that celebratud herosiarch. The Presbyterian form ol 



4 LIFE OF BURNS. 

worship and of church government was endeared to the peopls 
from its being established b}' theuiseives. It was endeared to 
them, also, by tlie struggle it had to maintain with the Catholic 
and Protestant episcopal churches ; over both of which, after a 
hundred yeai"s of fierce, and sometimes bloody contention, it 
finally triumphed, receiving the countenance of government and 
the sanction of law. During this long period of contention and 
of suffering the temper of the people became more and more 
obstinate and bigoted ; and the nation received that deep tinge 
of fanaticism which coloured their public transactions, as w^ell 
as their private virtues, and of which evident traces may be 
found in our own times. When the public schools were esta- 
bhshed, the instruction communicated in them partook of the 
religious character of the people. The Catechism of the West- 
minster Divines was the universal school-book, and was put into 
the hands of the young peasant as soon as he had acquired a 
knowledge of the alphabet ; and his first exercise in the art of 
reading introduced him to the most mysterious doctrines of 
the Christian faith. This practice is continued in our own times. 
After the Assembly's Catechism, the Proverbs of Solomon, and 
the New and Old Testament follow in regular succession ; and 
the scholar departs, gifted with the knowledge of the sacred 
writings, and receiving their doctrines according to the interpre- 
tation of the Westminster Confession of Faith. Thus, with the 
instruction of infancy in the schools of Scotland, are blended the 
dogmas of the national church ; and hence the first and most 
constant exercise of ingenuity among the peasantry of Scotland, 
is displayed in religious disputation. With a strong attachment 
to the national creed is conjoined a bigoted preference for certair 
forms of worship, the source of which would be often altogether 
obscure, if we did not recollect that the ceremonies of the Scot- 
tish Church were framed in direct opposition, in every point, 
to those of the Church of Rome. 

The eccentricities of conduct, and singularities of opinion and 
manners, which characterised the English sectaries in the last 
century, afforded a subject for the comic muse of Butler, whose 
pictures lose their interest since their archetypes are lost. Some 
of the pecuharities common among the more rigid disciples ol 
Calvinism in Scotland, in the present times, have given scope 
to the ridicule of Burns, whose humour is equal to Butler's, and 
whose drawings from living manners are singularly expressive 
and .exact. Unfortunately, the correctness of his taste did not 
alwaj^s correspond with the strength of his genius. 

The information and the religious education of the' peasantry 
of Scotland promote sedateuess of conduct and habits of thought 
and reflection. These good qualities are not counteracted, by 
the establishment of poor laws. Happily in Scotland, the samo 
legislature which established a sj^stem of instruction for the 
poor, resisted the introduction of a legal provision for the sup- 
port of poverty ; hence it \\'ill not appear surprising if the Scot- 
tish peasantry have a more than usual share of prudence and 
reflection, if they approach nearer than persons of their 
order usually do to the definition of a man — that of " a being 



LIFE OP HURNS 



that look? Iioforft and after." Tliose observations nuist indeeJ 
bo taken with man^' exceptions; the lavonrable operation of the 
causes just mentioned is counteracted by others of an opposite 
tendency : and tlio subject, if fully examined, would lead f>o 
discussions of prreat extent. 

When the lloforniation was cstabli.shed in Scotland, instru- 
mental music w.os banished from the churches, as savoiiriiii; loo 
nmcli of "profane minstrelsy," Instead of bein^^ re^ulate<l l-y 
an instrument, the voices of the congregation are le<l a«d dircc'a^d 
by a pei'son under the name of a precei.tor, and the j)eople are 
all expected to join in the time which he chooses for the psalm 
which is to be sung. Church music is, therefore, a part of tiie 
education of the peasantr}' of Scotland, in which tliey are usually 
instructed in the long winter nights by the parish schoolmaster, 
who is generally the precentor, or by itinerant teachers, more 
celebrated for their powers of voice. This branch of education 
had, in the last reign, fallen into some n(?glect, but was revived 
about thirty or forty years ago, when tlie niTisic itself was 
reformed and improved. The Scottish system of psalmody, 
however, is radically bad. Destitute of taste or harmony, it 
forms a striking contrast with the delicacy and pathos of the 
profane airs. Our poet, it will Ije found, was taught church 
music, in which, however, he attained Uttle proficiency. 

That dancing should also be very generally a part of the 
education oi" the Scottish peasantry will surprise those who 
have onlj"^ seen this description of men ; and still more those 
who reflect on the rigid sp-irit of Calvinism, with which the nation 
is so deeply atl'ected, and to which this recreation is so strongl}' 
abhorrent. The winter is also the season when they acquire 
dancing, and, indeed, almost all their other instruction. They 
arc taught to dance by persons generally of their own mmiber, 
many of whom work at daily labour during the summer months. 
Tlie school is usually a barn, and the arena for the perfomiers 
is generally a clay floor. Tlie dome is lighted by candles stuck 
in one end of a cloven stick, the other end of which is stuck into 
the wall. Keels, strathspeys, contra-dances, and hornpipes, are 
here practised The jig, so much in favour among the English 
peasantrj' has no place among them. The attachment of the 
people of Scotland of every rank, and particularly of the pea- 
santry, to this amusement, is very great. After the labours of 
the day are over, joung men and women walk many miles, in 
the cold and di'eary nights of winter, to these country dancing- 
schools, and the instant the violin sounds a Scottish air, fatigue 
seems to vanish, the toil-bent rustic becomes erect, his features 
brighten with sympathj', every nerve seems to thrill with sensa- 
tion, and every artery to vibrate with life. These rustic per- 
formers, indeed, are less to be admired for grace than for agility 
and animation, and for their accurate observance of time. Their 
modes of dancing, as well as their tunes, are common to every 
rank in Scotland, and are now gcnerall}' known. In our own 
da}- they have penetrated into England, and have established 
themselves even in the circle of royalty. In another geneiation 
they will be naturalised in every part of the island. 

b3 



u hlVE, OF BUllNS. 

The prevalance of this faste, or rather passion, for dancing 
Binon^ a people so deeply tinctured with the spirit and doctriao 
of Calvni, IS 0118 ot those contradictions which tlie pliilosophic 
observer so often finds in national cl-aracter and manners. It is 
probabl3'- to be ascril)ed to the Scottish music which, throughout 
•all its varieties, is so full of sensibihty, and vvnicli, in its livelier 
"strains, awakes those vivid emotions that find, in dancing their 
natural solace and relief. 

This triumph of the music of Scotland over the spirit of the 
estabhshed rehgion, has not, however, been obtained without 
long-continued and obstinate struggles. The numerous sectaries 
who dissent from the Establishment on account of the relaxation 
which they perceive, or think thej^ perceive, in the Church, from 
her original doctrines and disciphne, universally condemn the 
practice of dancing, and the schools whei'e-itis taught: and the 
more elderly and serious part of the people, of every persuasion . 
tolerate rather than approve these meetings of the young of both 
sexes, where dancing is practised to their spirit-stirring music, 
where care is dispelled, toil forgotten, and prudence itself is 
sometimes lulled to sleep. 

The Reformation, which proved fatal to the rise of the other 
fine arts in Scotland, probably impeded, but could not obstruct, 
the progress of its music — a circumstance that will convince the 
impartial inquirer, that this music not only existed previously 
to that era, but had taken a firm hold of the nation, thus 
affording a proof of its antiquity stronger than any produced by 
tlie researches of our antiquaries. 

The impression which the Scottish music has m.ade on the 
r)eople, is deepened by its \mion with the national soHgs, of 
which various collections of unequal merit are before the public. 
These songs, like those of other nations, are many of them 
humorous, but they chiefly treat of love, war, and di'inking. 
Ixrve is the subject of the greater proportion. Without display- 
ing the higher powers of the imagination, they exhibit a perfect 
knowledge of the human heart, and breathe a spirit of affection, 
and sometimes of delicate and romantic tenderness, not to be 
surpassed in modern poetry, and which the more polished 
strains of antiquity have seldom possessed. 

The origin of this amatory character in the rustic muse of 
Scotland, or of the greater number of these love-songs them- 
selves, it would be difficult ^o trace; they have accmnulated in 
the silent lapse of time, and it is now perhaps impossible to give 
an arrangement of them in the order of their date, valuable as 
such a record of taste and manners would be. Their present 
uifluence on the character of the nation is, however, great and 
striking. To them we must attribute, in a great measure, the 
romantic passion which so often characterises the attachments 
of the humblest of the people of Scotland, to a degree that, if 
V. e mistake not, is seldom found in the same rank of society in 
other countries. The pictures of lovo and happiness exhibited 
in their rural songs, are early impressed on the mind of the 
peasant, and are rendered more attractive from the music with 
which they are united. The^' associate themselves with his own 



SOCIAL INTKKCOUR.se OF TUli SliXES. 7 

youthful emotions ; they elevate the ohject as well as the na- 
ture nf his attachment ; and erive to the ioipreasions of scnso Iho 
beautiful colours of inmgiiiation. Hence, in the course of his 
passion, a Scottish peasant often exerts a spirit of adventure, of 
which a Spanish cavalier need not be ashamed. After tha 
labours of the day are over, he sets out for the habitation of hii 
mistress, perhaps at many miles' distance, reg^ardless of the 
length or the dreariness of the way. He approaches her in 
secresy, muler the dis{?uise of night. A signal at the door or 
window, perhaps agreed on, and \uiderstood by none but her, 
gives infonnation of his arrival ; and sometimes it is repeated 
ngain and :igain, before the ca])ricious fair one will obey the 
summons. But if she favoui's his addresses, she escapes unob- 
served, and receives tlie vows of her lover under the gloom of 
twilight or the deeper shade of night. Interviews of this kind 
are the subjects of many of the Scottish songs, some of the most 
beautiful of which Burns has imitated and improved. In the 
art which they celebrate he was perfectly skilled ; he knew and 
had practised all its mysteries. Intercourse of this sort is 
indeed nniversal even in the humblest condition of man in every 
region of the earth. But it is not unnatural to suppose that it 
may exist in a greater degree, and in a more romantic fonn, 
among the peasantry of a country, who are supposed to be more 
than commonly instructed — who find in their rural songs 
expressions for their youthful emotions — and in whom the 
embers of passion are continually fanned by the breathings of a 
nnisic full of tenderness and sensibility. The direct influence of 
physical causes on the attachment betv/cen the sexes is compa- 
ratiN'cly small, but it is modified l)y moral causes beyond any 
other affection of the mind. Of those, music and poetry are the 
chief. Among the snov/s of Lapland, and under the burning 
sun of Angola, the savage is seen hastening to his mistress, and 
everj-where he beguiles the weariness of his journey with poetry 
and song. 

In appreciating the hapr^iness and virtue of a community, 
there is, perhaps, no single criterion on which so much depend- 
ence may be placed as the state of the intercourse between the 
sexes. Where this displays ardour of attachment, accompanied 
by pui-ity of conduct, the character and influence of women rise in 
society-, our imperfect nature mountain the scale of moral excel- 
lence ; and, from the source of this single affection, astream of feli- 
city descends, which branches into athousand rivulets that enrich 
aud adorn the field of lite. Where the attachment between the 
sexes sinks into an appetite, the heritage of our species is com- 
paratively poor, and man approaches the condition of the brutes 
that perish! " If we could with safety indulge the pleasing 
supposition, that Fingal lived andOssian sung," Scotland, judg- 
ing from this criterion, mighc be considered as ranking high in 
happiness and virtue in very remote ages. To appreciate her 
situation by the same criterion in our own times, would be a 
delicate and a difficult undertaking. After considering the pro- 
bable influence of her popular songs aud her national music, and 
^^jcctroining how far the effects to be expected from these are sup- 



LIFE OF BUllNS. 

ported by faot?, the inquirer would also have to examirie the 
Influence of otbev causes, and particularly of ner civil and eccle- 
siastical insticitions, by which the character and even the man- 
1 t.Ts of a people, though silently and slowly, are often powerfully 
r.-itr oiled. In the point of view in which we are considering 
(lie subject, the ecclesiastical establishments of Scotland may bo 
supposed pecuharly favoural)le to purity of conduct, The dis- 
sotuloness of manners among the Cathohc clergy, which pre- 
ened, and in some measure produced, the Eeformation, led to 
f.BL extraordinary strictness on the part of the reformers, and 
espcciallj^ in that particular, in which the licentiousness of the 
clerg}' had been carried to its greatest height — the intercourse 
between the sexes. On this point, as on all others connected 
with austerity of manners, the disciples of Calvin assumed a 
greater severity than those of the Protestant Episcopal church. 
The punishment of illicit connection between the sexes was, 
throughout all Europe, a province which the clergy assumed to 
themselves; and the clnu-ch of Scotland, which at the Reforma- 
tion renounced so many powers and privileges, at that period 
took this crime under her more especial jurisdiction. Where 
pregnancy takes place without marriage, the condition of the 
female causes the discovery ; and it is on her, therefore, in the 
iirst instance, that the clergy and elders exercise their zeal. 
After examination before the kirk-session, touching the circuni- 
staitces of her guilt, she must endure a public penance and sus- 
tain a public rebuke from the pulpit, for three Sabbaths succes- 
sively, in the face of the congregation to which she belongs, and 
thus have her weakness exposed and her shame blazoned. The 
sentence is the same with respect to the male, but how much 
lightai' the punishment ! It is well known that this dreadful 
law, worthy of the iron minds of Calvin and Knox, has often led to 
consequences, at the very mention of which human nature recoils. 
While the punishment of incontinence prescribed by the 
institutions of Scotland is severe, the culprits have an obvious 
method of avoiding it, afforded them by the law respecting mar- 
riage, the validity of which requires neither the ceremonies, but 
simpler the acknowledgement of each other as husband and wife, 
made by the parties before witnesses, or in any other way 
that gives legal evidence of such an acknowledgment having 
taken place. And as the parties themselves fix the date of their 
marriage, an opportunity is thus given to avoid the punishment 
and repair the consequences of illicit gratification. Such a 
degree of laxity respecting so serious a contract might produce 
mucli confusion in the descent of property without a still farther 
indulgence ; but the law of Scoland legitimating all children 
born before w^cdlock, on the subsequent marriage of their parents, 
renders the actual date of the marriage itself of little conse- 
quence. Marriages contracted in Scotland without the ceremo- 
nies of the church are considered as in^egular, and the parties 
usually submit to a rebuke for their conduct, in the face of their 
respective congregations, which is not, however, necessary to 
render the marriage valid. Burns, whose marriage, it wiD 
appear, was. vr^'efjular, does not seem to have undergone this 
part of the discipline of tlie chui'ch. 



SOCIAL. INTtlUJUUKSl!; Of XUli SKXliS. V 

Thus, though the institutions of Scotland are in many par- 
ticuhirs favourable to conduct among the, peasantry founded 
upon foresight and redeition, on the .suhjoct of marriage tho 
reverse of this is true. Irregular marriages, it may be natu- 
rally supposed, are olten imi)rovi(leut ones, in whatever rank of 
soeiety they occur. The children of such marriages, poorly 
endowed by their parents, find a certain degree of instruction 
of easy acquisition, but the comforts of life, and the gratitica- 
tions of ambition, they find ot more difficult attainment in their 
native soil ; and thus the marriage laws of Scotland conspire, 
with other circumstances, to produce that habit of emigration, 
and spirit of adventure, for which the people are so remarkable. 

The manners and appearance of the Scottish peasantry do not 
bespeak to a stranger the degree of their cultivation. In their 
own country, their industry is inferior to that of the same 
description of men in tho southern division of the island. In- 
dustry and the useful arts reached Scotland later than England ; 
and though their advance has been rapid there, the efl'ects pro- 
duced are as yet inferior both in reality and in appearance. The 
Scottish farmers have in general neither the opulence nor the 
comforts of those of England, neither rest the same capital in 
the soil, nor receive from it the same return. Their clothing, 
their food, and their habitations, are almost everywhere infe- 
rior. Their appearance in these respects corresponds with the 
appearance of their country ; and under the operation of patient 
industr}-, both are improving. Industry and the useful arts 
came later into Scotland than into England, because the secmity 
of property came later. With causes of internal agitation and 
warfare, similar to those which occurred to the more southern 
nation, the people of Scotland were exposed to more imminent 
hazards and to more extensive and destructive spoliation, from 
external war. Occupied in the maintenance of their independ- 
ence against their more powerful neighbours, to this purpose 
were necessarily sacriticed the arts of peace, and, at certain 
periods, the flower of their population. And when the union 
of the crowns produced a security from national wars with Eng^ 
land, for the century succeeding, the civil wars common to both 
divisions of the island, and their dependence, perhaps the neces- 
sary dependence, of the Scottish councils on those of the more 
powerful kingdom, counteracted this disadvantage. Even the 
luiion of the British nations was not, from obvious causes, 
immediately followed by all the benefits which it was ultimately 
destined to produce. At jength, however, these benefits are 
distinctly felt and generally ack-.iowledged, Property is secure ; 
manufactures and commerce increasing; and agriculture is 
rapidly increasing in Sc^otland. As yet, indeed, the farmci-s 
are not, in general, enabled to make improvements out of their 
owu capitals, as in England ; but the landholders, who have 
seen and felt the advantages resulting fro'.n them, contribute 
towards them with a liberal hand. Hence property, as well as 
population, is accumulating rapidly on the Scottish soil ; and 
the nation, enjoying a great part of the blessings of Eughshmen, 
■and vetaiuiug several of their owu happy institutions, might be 



10 Ln& Ol<' BUIINS. 

considered, if confidence could be placed in human foresight, to 
be as yet only in an early stage of their progress. Yet there are 
obstructions in their way. To the cultivation of the soil are 
opposed the extent and the strictness of the entails ; to the 
improvement of the people, the rapidly-increasing use of spiritu- 
ous liquors ; a detestable practice, which includes in its conse- 
quences almost every evil, physical and moral. The peculiarly 
social disposition of the Scottish peasantrj^ exposes them to this 
practice. This disposition, which is fostered, by their national 
songs and music, is, perhaps, characteristic of the nation at 
large. Though the source of many jjleasures, it counteracts, by 
its consequences, the efiects of their patience, industry, and 
frugality, both at home and abroad, of which those especially 
who have witnessed the progress of Scotsmen in other countries 
must have known many striking instances. 

Since the Union, the maimers and language of the people of 
Scotland have no longer a standard among themselves, but are 
tried by the standard of the nation to which they are united. 
Though their habits are far from being flexible, yet it is evident 
that their manners and dialect are undergoing a rapid change. 
Even the farmers of the present day appear to have less of the 
pecuHarities of their country in their speech than the men of 
letters of the last generation. Burns, who never left the island 
nor penetrated farther into England than Carlisle on the one 
hancl, or Newcastle on the other, had less of the Scottish 
dialect than flume, vvho lived for many years in the best society 
of England and France — or perhaps than Robertson, who 
wrote the English language in a style of such parity ; and if 
he had been in other respects fitted to take a lead in the British 
House of Connuons, his pronunciation would neither have 
fettered his eloquence, nor deprived it of its due effect. 

A striking particular in the character of the Scottish peasantry 
is one which it is hoped will not be lost — the strength of their 
domestic attachments. The privatioiis to which man) parents 
submit ibr the good of their children, and particularly to obtain 
for them instruction, \vhich they consitler as the chief good, has 
already been noticed. If their children live and prosper-, they 
have their certain reward, not merely as witnessing, but as 
sharing of their prosperity. Even in the humblest ranks of the 
peasantr}', the earnings of the children may generally be con- 
sidered as at the disposal of their parents : perhaps in no country 
is so large a portion of the wages of labour applied to the support 
and comfort of those whose days of labour are past. A similar 
strength of attachment extends through aU the domestic 
relations. Our poet partook largely of this amiable characteiistio 
of his humble compeers : he was also strongly tinctured with 
another striking feature which belongs to them — a partiality 
for his native country, of which many proofs may be found in 
his writings. This, it must be confessed, is a very strong and 
general sentiment among the natives of Scotland, differing, 
however, in its character, according to the character of the 
different minds in which it is found — in some appearing a selfish 
prejudice, in others a generous aftectiou. 



PATRIOTISM OK TUB SCOTCH It 

An fittachmontto the land of their birth is, indeed, oomci^n 
to all men. It is found araoTig the inhabitants of every rcj^iou 
of the earth, from the aretic to the unt-arctic circle, in all the vast 
variety o!' climate, of surl'aee, and uf civilization. To analyse tlii3 
general sentiment, to trace it throu-h the mazes of association 
up to tlie in-imary aOection in which it has its source, would 
neither he a ditlicult nor an unpleasiug labour. On the first 
considenition of the suhjeet, we should perhaps expect to find 
this iittachment stroui:; in proportion to the physical advautai^cs 
of the soil ; but inquiry, far from contirmiui^ this supposition, 
seems rather to Iciui to an opposite conclusion. In those fertilo 
regions where Ixnictieent. nature yields almost spontaneously 
whatever is necessary to human wants, patriotism, as well as 
every other generous sentiment, seems weak and languid. In 
countries less richly endowed, -.vhere the comforts, and even 
necessaries, of life niust hd purchased by patient toil, the affec- 
tions of the mind, as well as the faculties of the understanding, 
improve under exertion, and patriotism flourishes amidst its 
kindred virtues. AVhere it is necessiu-y to combine for mutual 
dei'ence, as well as ior the supply of connnon wants, mutual 
good-will springs from nuitual dithculties andlabom-s, the social 
affections unfold themselve-s and extend from the men with 
whom we Kve to the soil on v.hich we tread. It will perhaps 
he found, indeed, that our ahections cannot be originally called 
forth, but by objects capable, or supposed capable, of feehng our 
sentiments, and of returning them ; but when once excited, they 
are strengthened by exercise ; they are expanded by the powers 
of imagination, and sei/.c more especially on those inanimate 
parts of creation, which form the theatre on which we have 
first felt the alternations ci joy and sorrow, and first tasted the 
sweets of sympathy and re; f.id. If this reasoning be just, the 
love of our country, although modified, and "even extinguished 
in individuals by the chances and changes of hfe, may be pre- 
sumed, in our general reasonings, to be strong among a people, 
in proportion to their social, and more especially to their domestic 
affections. Tinder free governments it is found more active than 
under despotic ones, because as the individual becomes of more 
consequence in the ccraiKunity, the community becomes of 
more consequence to lum. In small states it is generally more 
active than in large ones, for the same reason, and also because 
the indcpe?:dence of a small community being maintained with 
difficulty, and frequently endangered, sentiments of patriotism 
are more frequently excited. In mountainous countries it is 
generally found more active than in plains, because there the 
necessities of hfe often require a closer union of the inhabitants ; 
and more especially, because in such countries, though less 
populous than plains, the inhabitants, instead of bchig scattered 
equally over the whole, are usually divided into small commu- 
nities on the sides of their separate valleys, and on the banks of 
their respeetive streams— situations well calculated to call forth 
and to concentrate the social affections, amidst scenery that 
acts most pov/erfully on the sight, and makes a lasting impression 
on the memory. It may also be remarked, that mountainoua 



12 LIFK 0]S BURNS. 

countries are often peculiarly calculated to nourish sentiments 
of national pride and independence, from the influence of his- 
tor\' on the afl'ections of the mind. In such countries, from 
their natural strength, inferior nations have maintained their 
iudependeuce against their more powerful neighhours, and valour 
iu all ages, lias made its most successful efforts against oppression. 
Such countries present the field of hattle wliere the tide of 
invasion was rolled hack, and whereon the ashes rest of those 
who have died in defence of their nation ! 

The operation of the various causes we have mentioned is doubt- 
less more general and more permanent where the scenery of a 
country, the peculiar manners of its inhabitauts, and the martial 
achievements of their ancestors, are embodied in national songs, 
and united to national music. By this combination, the ties 
that attach men to the land of their birth are multiphed and 
strengthened, and the images of inl'ancy, strongly associating 
with the generous affections, resist tlie influence of time and of 
new impressions ; they often survive in countries far distant, 
and amidst far diffei-ent scenes, to the latest period of life, to 
soothe the heart with the pleasures of memory when those of 
hope die away. 

If this reasoning be just, it will explain to us why amoug the 
natives of Scotland, even of cultiva':ed minds, we so generally 
find a partial attachment to the land of their birth, and why 
this is so strongly (hscoverable in the writings of Burns, 
who joined to the higher powers of the understanding the most 
ardent affections. Let not men of reflection think it a super- 
fluous laboiu' to trace the rise and progress of a character hke 
his. Born in the condition of a peasant, he rose bj' the force of 
his mind into distinction and influence, and in his works has 
exhibited what are so rarely found, the charms of original 
genius. With a deep insight into the human heart, his poetry 
exhibits high powers of imaginnfion — it displays and, as it 
were, embalms, 'the peculiar manners of his country; and it 
may be considered as a mom;ment, not to his own name onl}^, 
but to the expiring genius of an ancient and once independeiit 
nation. In relating the incidents of t is iif o, candour will prevent 
us from dwelling invidiously on those failings which justice 
forbids us to conceal ; we will tread lightly over his yet warm 
ashes, and respect the lam-els that shelter his untimelj'^ gave. 



Robert Burns was, as is well known, the son of a farmer 
in Ayrshire, and atferwards himself a farmer there ; but having 
l)een unsuccessful, he was about to emigrate to Jamaica. He 
had previously, however, attracted some notice by his poeticaJ 
talents in the vicinity where he Hved; and having published a 
small volume of his poems at Kilmarnock, this drew upon liim 
more general attention. In consequence of the encoxiragement 
he received, be repaired to Edinburgh, and there pubhsbed, by 
Bubscription, an improved and enlarged edition of his poems, 
which met with extraordinary success. By the profits arising 



burns' sketch op Ills OWN LIFE 13 

from the sale of this edition, he was enabled to enter on a farm 
in Dumfries-shire ; and havin.? married a person to whom ho 
had lu-rn bag attached, he retired to devote the remainder of 
iiis life to aericulture. He was again however unsuccessful ; and 
abandoning- his farm, lt« removal into the town of Dnmlnes, 
where he tilled an hiferior ollice in the Excise, and where he 
terminated liis life in July. 17yt'>, in his thirty-eiyhth year 

The strength and originality of his genius procured hun the 
notice of man \- pcrsoiis distinguishetl in the republic of letters, 
and among otlicrs that of Dv. JNloore, well known for his Views 
of Societj and Manners on the Continent of Europe, lor his 
Zeluco, and various other works. To this gentleman our poet 
addressed a letter, alti-r his tirst \isit to Edinburgh, givmgahis- 
tory of his life, up to the period of his writing. In a composition 
never intended to see the lig:bt, elegance, or perfect con-ectness 
of composition, will not be exi^ected. These, however, will be 
compensated by the opportunity of seeing our poet, as he gives 
the incidents of his hfe, unfold the peculiarities of his character 
with all the careless vigour and open sincerity of his mind. 
"Maucliline, 2nd August, 1787. 

" SiE.— For some months past I have been rambling over tlio 
country, but I am now confined with some lingering complaints, 
originating, as 1 take it, in the stomach. To divert my spirits 
a httie in this miserable fog of ennui, I have taken a whim to 
give you a history of myself. My name has made some little, 
noise iu this country— you have done me the honour to interest 
yourself warmly in my behalf; and I think a faithful account 
of what character of a man I am, and how I came by that 
character, may perhaps amuse you in an idle moment. I wdl 
give you an honest narrative, though I know it will be often at 
my own expense ; ibr I assure you, sir, I have, like Solomon, 
whoso character, excepting in the trifling affair oi wisdom,! some- 
times think I resemble— I have, I say, like him, turned mij ei/cs to 
heJioId madness and fully, and like him, too frequently shaken 
hands with their intoxicating friendship. * * * , •''i , 
After you have perused these pages, should you think them 
triiUng and impertinent, I only beg leave to teU you, that the 
poor author wrote them under some twitching qualms ot con- 
science, arisuig from suspicion that he was doing what he ought 
not to do— a predicament he has more than once been m 
before." , 

" I have not the most distant pretensions to assume that 
character which the pye-coated guardians^ of escutcheons call a 
gentleman. When at Edinburgh last winter, T got acquainted 
in the Herald's Otfice ; and, looking through that granary of 
honours, I there found almost every name m the kingdom ! 
but for me, 

' My ancient but ignoble blood ^ 

Has crept thro' scoundrels ever since the flood. 
Gales, Pnrpure, Argent, &c., quite disowned me." 

My father was of the north of Scotland, the son of a farmer 
ftud was thrown by early Tuistortunce on the world at large, 



14 LIFE OP liDRNS. 

where, after many years' wanderings and sojournings, he picked 
up a pretty large quantity of observation and experience, to 
which I am indebted for most of my little pretensions to wisdowi. 
1 have met with few who understood men, their manne/s, 
and their ways, equal to him ; but stubborn, ungainly integrity, 
and headlong ungovernable irascibility, are disqualifying 
circumstances, consequently I was born a very poor man's son. 
For the first six or seven years of my Ufe, my father was a 
gardener to a worthy gentleman of small estate in the neigh- 
bourhood of Ayr. Had he contiimed in that station I must 
have marched off to be one of the little underlings about a 
farm-house ; but it was his dearest wish and prayer to \io.\e it 
in his power to keep his children under his own eye till they 
could discern between good and evil ; so, with the assistance of 
his generous master, my father ventured on a small farm on his 
estate. At those years I was by no means a favourite with any 
body. I was a good deal noted for a retentive memory, a 
stubborn sturdy something in vciy disposition, and an enthu- 
siastic idiotic piety. I say idiotic piety, because I was then 
but a child. Though it cost the schoolmaster some thrashings, 
I made an excollent English scholar, and by the time I was ten 
or eleven years of age, I was a critic in substantives, verbs, and 
particles. In my infant and boyish days, too, I owed mucli to 
an old woman who resided in the famil}^, remarkable for her 
ignorance, credulity, and superstition. She had, I suppose, the 
largest collection in the country of tales and songs concerning 
devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, warlocks, spunkies, 
kelpies, elf-candles, dead-lights, wraiths, apparitions, cantraips, 
giants, enchanted towers, dragons, and other trumpery. This 
cultivated the latent seeds of poetry, but had so strong an eflbct 
on my imagination, that to this hour, in my nocturnal rambles, 
I sometimes keep a sharp look-out in suspicious places; and 
though nobody can be more sceptical than I am in such matters, 
yet it often takes an efTort of philosophj'- to shake off these idle 
terrors. The earliest composition that I recollect taking plea- 
sure in was The Vision of Mirza, and a hymn of Addison's, 
beginning, " How are thy servants blest, oh Lord ! " I 
particularly remember one half-stanza, which was music to my 
boj-ish ear : — 

'For though on dreadful whirls we hung 

High on the broken w\ave.' 

I met with these pieces in IMason's Eng-lish Collection, one of 
my school-books. The two first books 1 ever read in private, 
and which gave me more pleasure than any two books I ever 
read since, were the Life of Hannibal, and The History of Sir 
William Wallace. Hannibal gave my young ideas such a turn, 
that I used to strut iu raptures up and down alter the recruiting 
drum and bagpipe, and wish myself tall enough to be a soldier , 
while the story of Wallace poured a Scottish prejudice into my 
veins, which will boil along there till the flood-gates of life shu* 
in eternal rest." 
" Polemical divinity about this time was putting the country 



fyrdm\$. 



PA0a 
Initiatory Remarks -------3 

Life 12 

The Death and Dying Words of Poor Mailie - - 111 

Poor Maihe's Elegy 113 

Epistle to Davie 114» 

Address to the Deil 117 

The Auld Farmer's Salutation to his Auld Mare Maggio 120 

lalloween 122 

A. Winter Night - 127 

Epistle to J. Lapraik 129 

To William Simpson 134 

Death and Dr. Hornbook 138 

The Holy Fair 142 

The Ordination ,._-.-- 147 

To James Smith .- - 150 

The Jolly Beggars — A Cantata .... 154 

Man was Made to" Mourn ------ 161 

To a Mouse 163 

The Vision -- ------ 164 

The Author's Earnest Cry and Prayer ... 170 

Scotch Drink 174 

Address to the Unco Good 177 

Tam Samson's Elegy ------- 179 

Despondeucj' ...--.-- 181 

The Cotter's Saturday Night 183 

To a Mpuntain Daisy 187 

Epistle to a Young Friend 188 

A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq. . - - 190 

A Dream 193 

A Bard's Epitaph 196 

The Tvva Dogs 196 

Lament 202 

Address to Edinburgh 203 

The Brigs of Ayr 205 

On Captain Matthew Henderson 210 

Tam 0' Shanter - 213 

Tragic Fragment ------- 217 

Winter, A Dirge - - - - - - - 218 

A Prayer under the Pressure of Violent Anguish - • 218 

A Prayer on the Prospect of Death - - - - 219 

Stanzs on the same Occasion ... - - 219 

Elegy on the Death of Ilobert Ruisseaux - - . 220 

The Calf 220 

The Twa Herds, or the Holy Tulzie - - - - 221 

Holy Willie's Prayer 223 

Epitaph on Holy Willie 225 

Epistle to John Gondie, of Kilmarnock - - - 226 



IV CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

A Fragment, inscribed to the Right Hon. C. J. Fox , 275 
On seeing a Hare limp by me, which a Fellowhad just shot 276 
The Kirk's Alarm, a Satire . . . . • . . 276 

To Dr. Blacklock . , 279 

Delia 280 

Sketch, New- Year's Day 280 

Prologue, spoken at the Dumfries Theatre . . . 282 
Prologue, for Mr. Sutherland's Benefit Night, Dumfries 282 
To a Gentleman who had sent the Poet a Newspaper . 284 

Peg Nicholson 284 

To my Bed 285 

First Epistle to Mr. Graham, of Fintry . , . 285 

The Five Carlines 287 

Second Epistle to Mr. Graham, of Fintry . . . 290 
On Captain Grose's Peregrinations through Scotland . 292 
Written in an Envelope, enclosing a Letter to Captain Grose 294 
Address to Beclzel^ub, to the Presdt. of the Highland Soc. 294 
Lament of Mary Queen of Scots .... 296 

The Whistle 297 

Elegy on Miss Burnet of Monboddo .... 299 
Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn .... 299 
Lines sent to Sir John Whiteford, Bart. . . . 301 
Third Epistle to Mr. Graham, of Fintry . . . 301 

Fourth Epistle to Mr. Graham, of Fintry ... 303 

The Rights of Woman 304 

To Mr. Maxwell, on his Birth-Day .... 3G.'> 

On Pastoral Poetrj' 305 

Sonnet, on Heaving a Thrush Sing . , . 307 

The Tree of Liberty 307 

To General Dumouricr . . . . . . 309 

Lines sent to a Gentleman whom he liad ofl'ended . . 309 
Monodj' on a Lady Fauiod for her Caprice . . 310 

Epistle from ^^sopus to Maria 310 

Impromptu on Mrs. Riddel's Birth-day . . , 312 
Sonnet on the Death of Captain Riddel . . 312 

A Vision 313 

Liberty, a Fragment 314 

Verses to Miss Graham, of Fintry .... 31-i 

The Vowels, a Tale 314 

Verses to John Rankine 315 

On Sensibility 316 

Address Spoken by Miss Fontenelle, on her Benefit Night 316 

To Chloris 317 

Address to the Shade of Thompson . . . .318 

Ballads on Mr. Heron's Elections — Ballad First . 318 

Ballad Second — the Election 319 

Ballad Third — an Excellent New Song . , . 321 

On Life 323 

Inscription for an Altar to Independence . . , 324 
On the Death of a Favourite Child . . . 324 

To Mr. Mitchell . . . ■ . . . . 325 

The Ruined Maid's Lament 325 

The Dean of the Faculty 326 

Verses on the Destruction of the Woods near Drumlanrig 327 



Epistle to John Kankinc 

Third Epistle to John Lapraik .... 
Epistle to the Kev. John M'Miith 

The ^Vniovican Wai* 

Second Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet 

To Ruin 

The First Six Verses of the Ninetieth Psalm 

The First Psalm 

To a Louse --.---- 

The Inventory - - - - 

A Not*^ to Gavin Hamilton, Esq. - - - 

Willie Chalniers 

Lines \^ rittcu on a Bank Note . - - 

To a Kiss - - - - , - 
Verses \vritten mider violent grief - - - 
Verses left at a Friend's House where the Author Slept 

To Mr. M'Adam 

Lines on Meeting with Basil, Lord Daer 

Epistle to Major Logan 

Lament on Leaving Scotland . - - - 

On a Scotch Bard 

Written on the Blank Leaf of a Copy of Poems - 

The Farewell 

To a Haggis 

To Miss Logan, with Beattie's Poems 

Extempore in tlie Court of Session - . - 

To the Guidwife of Wanchope House - ." _, , 

Verses written under the portrait of Fergusson the Poet 

Inscription on the Headstone of Fergusson / " 

Prologue spoken hy Mr. Woods, on his henefit Night 

Epistfe to William Creech - - - 

On the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair - 

On Scaring some Water-Fowl in Loch-Turit 

The Humble Petition of Bruar Water 

The Hermit - • • ' Z, *," 

Verses Written at the Inn at Kenmore, Tayraouth 

Elegy on the Death of Lord Dundas . - - - 

^^erses Written by the Fall of Fyers 

On Reading the Death of John M'Leod 

On William SmeUie ...--- 

Address to T^h. William Tyler 

A Sketch 

To Miss Cruikshanks - - - " , " , , ^ • " 
An Evtempore Effusion, on being appomted to the Excise 
To Clarinda, with a Present of a Pair of Drinkmg Glasses 
To Clarinda, on his Leaving Edinburgh - 
Epistle to Hugh Parker . . ^ • _, • * .,, * 

Written in Friar's Carsc Hermitage, on the Banks ot JNitii 

Extempore to Captain Riddel 

A Motlier's Lament 

El^gy on the year 1788 

Aiidress to the Tooth-Ache 

Orte, Sacred to the Memory of Mrs. Oswald . 
L<>tter to James Teuuant 



V 

PAOH 

228 
227 
228 
231 
262 
233 
234 
235 
235 
230 
238 
239 
240 
240 
241 
241 
242 
24.3 
244 



2-16 

248 
248 
249 
250 
250 
251 
253 
253 
253 
254 
256 
257 
258 
260 
261 
262 
262 
263 
264 
264 
265 
265 
266 
2t56 
267 
267 
268 
270 
270 
271 
272 
273 
273 



Vi CONTENTS. 

PAGB 

On the Duke of Queensbeiry . . ■ . . .328 

Verses to John M'Murdo 328 

On Mr. M'Murdo, inscribed on a pane of glass iu his house 328 

Impromptu on Willie Steward 329 

To Miss Jessy Lewars 329 

Tibbie, I ha'e seen the day 329 

Montgomery's Peggy 330 

Bonny Peggy Alison 330 

Here's to thy health my Bonny Lass . . . 331 

Young Peggy , . . 332 

John Barleycorn 332 

The Rigs o' Barley 334 

The Ploughman 335 

Song composed in August 335 

Yon Wild Mossy Mountains 336 

My Nannie, O 337 

Green Grow the Kashes 338 

Tlie Cure for all Care 338 

On Cessnock Banks 339 

The Highland Lassie 340 

Powers Celestial 341 

From thee, EUza 342 

Menie 342 

TheFareweU 343 

The Braes o' Ballochmyle 344 

The Lass o' Ballochmyle 344 

The Gloomy Night is gathering fast .... 345 

The Banks o' Doon . • . • . . 346 

The Birks of Aberfeldy -.346 

I'm ower Young to Marry Yet 347 

M'Pherson's Farewell 347 

How Long and Dreary is the Night .... 348 

Here's a Health to them that's Awa .... 348 

Strathallan's Lament 349 

The Banks of the Devon 349 

Braving Angry Winter's Storms 350 

My Peggy's Face 350 

Raving Winds around her blowing .... 351 

Highland Harry 351 

Mushig on the Roaring Ocean 352 

Blythe was she . 352 

The Gallant Weaver 353 

The Blude-red Rose at Yule may blaw . . . 353 

A Rose-bud by my early walk 354 

Bonnie Castle Gordon 354 

When Januar' Wind 355 

The Young Highland Rover 356 

Bonnie Ann ...... ... 357 

Blooming Nelly « 357 

' My Bonnie Mary 358 

A lie Fond Kiss ..:.... 358 

The Smiling Spring 359 

Tlie Lazy Mist 35'^ 

01' a' the" Airts the Wind can Blaw . . . 36i' 



CONTENTS. 

Oh, where I on Parnasstis' Hill . 

The Chevalier's Lament 

Rly Heart's in the Highland 

Jolin Anderson 

To Mary in Heaven 

Yimnj? Jockey 

The Dav Returns 

Oh, Wiflie Brew'd 

I Gaed a Wafu' Gate Yestreen 

The Dunks of Nith .... 

My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie 

There'll never be Peace 

^leikle thinks my Love .... 
How can I be blythe and ^lad . 
I do Confess thou art sae Fair 

Hunting Song 

AVhat Can a Young Tjassie .... 
The Bonnie Wee Thing .... 

Lovely D;ivies 

Oh, for ane-and-twenty, Tam 

Kenmure's on and Awa .... 

Bess and her Spinning WTieel 

Oh Luve will venture in .... 

In Simmer, when the Hay was Mawn 

Turn asain, thou Fair Eliza 

Willie Wa-stle 

Such a Parcel of Rogues in a Nation 

Song of Death 

She's Fair and Fause 

Flow Gently, Sweet Afton 
The Lovely Lass of Inverness 

A red, red Rose 

Louis, what Reck I by Thee 

The Exciseman 

Somebody 

I'll aye ca' in by j'^on Town . . • 
Wilt thou be my Dearie?* .... 
Oh, Wat ye Wha's in yon Town 

But Lately Seen 

Could aught of Song .... 

Oh, Steer her up 

It was a' for our Rightfu' King 
Oh, wha is she that Lo'es me ? 

Caledonia 

Oh, lay thy Loof in Mine, Lass 

Anna, thy Charms 

Gloomy Detrember 

Oh, Mally's meek, Mally's sweet 

Cassillis' Banks 

My Lady's Gown, there's gairs npon't 

The Pete Champetre .... 

The Dumfries Volunteers .... 

Oh, w(nt thou in the Cauit Blast 

Lovel}' Polly" Stewart 




1 

en 

FAOB 

. 360 

361 

. 361 

. 302 

. 302 

363 
. 303 

364 
. 364 

365 
. 365 

306 
. 366 

367 
. 367 

368 
. 368 

369 
. 370 

370 
. 371 

371 
. 372 

373 
. 374 

374 
. 375 

376 
. 376 

377 
. 377 

378 
. 378 

378 
. 379 

379 

380 

380 
. 381 

381 
. 382 

382 
. 383 

384 

. 385 

. 385 

. 385 

386 

. 386 

. 387 

. 387 

388 
. 389 

390 



Viii CONTENTS. 






PAQB 


Testreen I had a Pint o' Wine 


. 390 


TheLeaRigr 


391 


Bonnie Leslie 


. 3.91 


Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary ? . 


392 


My V/ife's a winsome wee thing 


. 392 


Highland Mavy 


393 


Anld Rob Morris .... 


. 393 


Duncan Gray 


394 


Poortith Cauld 


. 395 


Gala Water 


396 


Lord Gregory 


. 396 


Mary Morrison 


397 


Wandering Willie .... 


. 397 


The Soldier's Retm-n .... 


398 


Rlj'the ha'e I been on yon Hill 


. 399 


Logan Braes 


. . 399 


Oh, Gin my Love were yon Red Rose 


. 400 


Bonnie Jean 


. . 401 


Meg o' the Mill 


402 


Open the door to me, Oh . . . 


. 402 


Young Jessie 


493 


Adown winding Nith I did wander 


. 403 


Had I a Cave 


. . 404 • 


PhiUis the Fair 


. 404 


By Allan Stream I chanc'd to Rove . 


405 


Come let me take Thee to my breast 


. 405 


Whistle and I'll come to you, my lad . 


406 


Daintv Davie 


. 406 


Bruce's Address 


. . 407 


Behold the Hour 


. . 407 


Auld Lang Syne 


408 


Where are the Joys ? 


. 409 


Thou hast left me, ever .... 


409 


Deluded Swain, the pleasure . . 


. 409 


Thine am I, ray Paithful Fair . 


410 


My Spouse, Nancy 


. 410 


The Banks of Cree ...... 


. . 411 


On the seas and far away . . . . 


. 412 


Ca' the Yovves to the Knowes 


412 


She say she lo'es me best of a' 


. . 413 


Saw ye my Philly ? 


414 


How long and dreary is the night ? . . 


. . 414 


Let not Woman e'er complain 


415 


Sleep'st thou, or Wak'st thou 


. 415 


Mj'; Cliloris, mark how green the groves 


416 


It was tlie Charming Month of May 


. . 417 


Farewell, thou stream that winding Hows . 


. . 417 


Lassie wi' the lintwhite locks . 


. 418 


Philly and Willy 


418 


Contented wi' Little . . . . . 


. 420 


Can'st thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 


420 


For a' that and a' that 


. 520 


M}' Nannie's awa ..... 


421 


Craigieburu Wood 


. 422 



CONTENTS. 

Oh Lassie, art thou Sleeping yet - 

Address to the Woocllark 

On Chloris being ill - • - - 

Their Groves o' sweet Myrtlo - 

How Cruel tut the Parents - 

"i'was ua her Bonnie Blue E'e was my rum 

JIark you pomp of Costly Fashion 

Oh, this is no my ain Lassie 

Now Spring has clad the Grove in Green 

Oh, Bonnie was yon liosy Ihier 

Forlorn my Love, no comfort near 

Hey for a Lass wi' a Tocher 

Last May a Braw Wooer 

Fragment - - - 

Jess}' . . - - 

Fairest I\Iaid on Devon Banka 

Handsome Nell - 

"My Father was a Farmer 

Up in the morning early 

Hey, the Dusty Miller 

Robin . . - - 

The Belles of ^Mauchline - 

Her flowing Locks 

The Sons of Old ICillie 

The Joyful Widower 

0, Whare did you Get 

There was a Las^ - _ - 

Landlady, Count the Lawin 

llatthn' Koariu' Willie 

Simmer's a pleasant time 

My Love she's but a Lassie yet 

The Captain's Lady 

First when Meggy was my care 

There's a Youth in this City 

Oh aye my Wife she dang me 

Eppie Adair . - - - 

T'he Battle of Sheriff-Muir • 

The Highland Widow's Lament 

Where ha'e ye been ? - 

Theuiel Menzie's Bonnie Mary 

Frac the Friends and Land I Lovi 

Gane is the Day . - - 

The Tither Morn 

Come Boat me o'er to Charlie - 

It is na, Jean, thy bounie Face 
I ha'e a Wife o' my Ain - 
Withsdale's Welcx)me Home 
My Collier Laddie 
As I was a- Wandering 
Ye Jacobites by Name 
Lady ]\lary Ann 

Out over the Forth - - - 

Jocke3''s ta'en the Parting Kiss 

The Carles o' Dysart 



tAGH 

422 

423 
. 424 

424 
. 425 

425 
. 425 

426 
. 427 

427 
. 428 

428 

. 429 

430 

- 430 
431 

- 431 
432 

. 433 
433 

- 434 
434 

- 434 
435 

- 435 
43« 

- 436 
437 

- 437 
438 

- 433 
439 

- 439 
43S 

- 440 
440 

- Ul 
442 

- 443 
443 

- 444 
444 

- 441 
445 

- 445 
446 

- 446 
447 

. 448 
448 

. 449 
449 

. 449 
450 



Lady Onlie 

Young Jamie, Pride of a' the Plain 

Jeuuy's a' wat, Poor Body - 

The Cardiii o't 

To tbee, Loved Nith - 

Sae Far Awa - 

Wae is my heart 

Amang the Trees 

The Highland Laddie 

Bannocks o' Barley 

Roljin Shure in Hairst 

Sweetest May 

The Lass of Ecclefechan 

Here's a Bottle and an Honest Friend 

On a Ploughman 

The Weary Pund o' Tow 

The Laddies hy the Banks o' Nitli 

Epigrams, ^c, 

&JflTA»US 



PAGH 

■ 450 
451 

• 451 
452 

■ 452 
452 

■ 453 
453 

. 453 
454 

. 454 
455 

- 455 
455 

. 456 
456 

- 4i-)6 
457 

4<»y 



BURNS' SKETCH OP JIIS OWN LIFE. 15 

half mad ; and I, ambitious of shining: in con'-'sr-sation-parfio"* 
on Sundays, between sermons, at funerals, &\.'. , xxf.cd a fc v ye:ir8 
afterwards, to puzzle Calvinism with bo mu-.h brat a:v indis- 
cretion, that I raised a hue ami cry of hr.i niy against me, 
which has not ceased to this hour." 

My xiciuity to Ayr was of some advautajre to nie. My 
social disposition, when not ehecked by some m, id ili cations of 
spirited pride, was, like our catechism detinitio;i of inlinitude, 
without bounds or limits. I fonned several cor.necfions with 
other j^ounkors who possessed superior advauti\p:cs, \\\c.t/oungIinrf 
actors who were busy in the rehearsal of parts in wliich they 
were shortly to appear on the stage of life, where, alas ! I was 
destined to drudge behind the scenes. It is not commonly at 
this gi'cen age that our young gentry have a just sense of the 
immense distance between them and their ragged playfellows. 
It takes a few dashes in the world to give the young great man 
that proper, decent, unnoticing disregard for thepoor insignificant 
stupid devils, the mechanics and peasantry around him, who 
were perhaps born in the same village. My young superiors 
never insulted the clouterly appearance of my plough-boy 
carcase, the two extremes of which were often exposed to all 
the inclemencies of all seasons. They would give me stray 
volumes of books : among them, even then, I could pick up 
some observations ; and one, whose heart 1 am sure not even the 
Munny Begum scenes have tainted, helped me to a little French. 
Parting with these, my young friends and benefactors, as they 
occcasionally went off to the East or West Indies, was often to 
me a sore affliction ; but I was soon called to more serious evils. 
My father's generous master died ; the farm proved a ruinous bar- 
gain ; and to clench the misfortune, we fell into the hands of a 
factor, who sat for the picture I have drawn of one in my tale of 
Twa Dogs. ;My father was advanced in hfe when he married ; 
I was the eldest of seven children ; and he, worn out by early 
hardships, was unfit for labour. My father's spirit was soon 
irritated, but not easily broken. There was a ii-eedom in his 
lease in two years more; and to weather these two years, we 
retrenched our expenses. We lived very poorly. I was a 
dextrous ploughman, for my age ; and the next eldest to me was 
a brother (Gilbert) who could di'ive the plough very well, and help 
me to thrash the corn. A novel wfiter might perhaps have 
viewed these scenes with some satisfaction, but so chd not I ; my 
indignation yet boils at the recollection of the scoundrel factor's 
insolent threatening letters, which used to set ns aU in tears." 

" This kind of hfe— the cheerless gloom of hermit, with the 
unceasing toil of a galley-slave, brought me to my sixteenth 
year ; a little before which period I first committed the sin of 
rhyme. You know our country custom of coupling a man and 
woman together as partners in the labours of harvest. In' xay 
fifteenth autumn, my partner was a bewitching creature a year 
younger than myself. IVIy scarcity of English denies me the 
power of doing her justice in that language; but you know the 
Scottish idiom — she was a honnie, sweet, sonsic lass. In shoi-t, 
she altogether, unwittingly to herself, initiated me in that deh"« 



16 



LIFE OP BURNS. 



cious passion which, in spite of acid disappointment, gin-howe 
prudence, and book-worm philosophy, I hold to be the first or 
human jo.ys, our dearest blessing here below How she caught 
the contagion I cannot tell ; you medical people talk so mr.ch 
of infection from breuthing the same air, the touch, &c., biit I 
never expressly said I loved her. Indeed I did not know myself 
why I liked so much to loiter behind with her when returning 
'M the evening from our labours; why the tones of her voice 
made my heart strings thrill hkc an ^Eolian harp ; and par- 
ticularly, why my pubie beat such a furious,ratan wlien I looked 
and fingered over her little hand to pick out the cruel nettle 
stings and thistles. Among her other love-inspiring qualities, 
she sang sweetly ; and it was her favourite reel to which I 
attempted giving an embodied vehicle in rhyme. 1 was not 
so presumptuous at to imagine that 1 could make verses hke 
printed ones, composed by men wlio had Greek and Laiin ; but 
my girl sang a song, which was said to be composed by a small 
country laird's son, on one of his father's maids, with whom lie 
was in love, and I saw no reason wlij-^ 1 might not rhyme as weU 
as he ; for, excepting that he could smear sheep, and cast peats, 
his father living in the moor-lands, he had no more scholar-crait 
than myself." 

" Thus with me began love and poetry ; which at times have 
been my onlj'^, and till within the last twelve months, have been 
my highest enjoyment. My father struggled on till he reached 
the freedom in his lease, when he entered on a larger farm, 
about ten miles farther in the country. Tlie nature of the 
bargain he made was such as to throw a little ready money into 
his hands at the commencement of his lease ; otherwise tlie 
affair would have been impracticable. For four years we lived 
comfortable here; but a difference commencing between him 
and his landlord as to terms, after three years' tossing and 
whirhng in the vortex of litigation, my father was just saved 
from the horrors of a jail by a consumption, which, after two 
years' promises, kindly stepped in, and carried him away, to 
where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at 
rest." 

" It is during the time that we lived on this farm that my 
little story is most eventful. I was, at the begining of this 
period, perhaps the most tmgainlj'-, awkward boy in the parish- 
no solitaire was less acquainted with the ways of the world. 
What I knew of ancient story was gathered fi'om .Salmon's and 
Guthrie's Geographical Grammars ; and the ideas I had formed 
of modern manners, of literature, and criticism, I got from the 
Spectator. These, with Pope's Works, some plays of Shakspeare, 
TuU and Dickson on Agriculture, the Pantheon, Locke's Essay 
on the Human Understanding, Stackhouse's History of the 
Bible, Justice's British Gardener's Directory, Bayle's Lectures, 
Allan Eamsay's Works, Taylor's Scripture Doctrine of Original 
Sin, A Select Collection of English Songs, and Hervey's Medi- 
tations, had formed the wliole of my reading. The collection 
of songs was mv vade mecum. I pored over them driving my 
cart, or walkinp to labour, song by song, verse by verse— 



I-.I'IC.N.S LlUHAia n 

car. fully notinjr tlio true, tender, or sublime, from aneotalion 
oiul fustian, I atn cunvinced I owe to this practice mucii o( 
my critic crnft, such as it i»." 

•' in my seventeenth year, to ^Cive my manners a brush, I 
•vent to a country (lanciiii;-^;chool. My father liad an unac- 
jountablo antipathy ajjainst these meetings, and my goin;^ wiis, 
wliat to this nioniont I rei)ent, in oppui-ition to his wishes. 
Jly I'allier, as I said before, was su]);Hct to strong passions ; from 
tliat intaTice of disobedience in me he look a sort of dishke to 
me, which I beheve was one cause of the dissipation which 
marked my succeeding years. I say dissipation, comparatively 
with the strictness, and sobriet}, an 1 regularity, of I'resbytcrian 
country hfe; for though the Will o' Wisp meteors of thought- 
less whim were almost the sole lights of my path, yet early 
ingrained piety and virtue kept ni'^ for several years afterwards 
within the hue of innocence. The grcit misfortune of my life 
was to want an aim. I had felt eari y i/ f ne stimngs of ambition, 
but they were the blind gropings of Homer's Cyclops round the 
walls of his cave. I saw my father's situation entailwl on me 
perpetual labour. The oidy two oi)eniugs by which I could 
enter the temple of Ibrtuno, was the gate of niggardly e.'onomy, 
or the path of little, chicaning bargain-makmg. The first is so 
contracted an aperture, 1 never could stpieeze myself into it ; 
the last I always hated — there was contamnation in the very 
entrance ! Thus abandoned of aim or view in life, with a strong 
a])petite for sociability, as well fi'om native hilarity as i'roni a 
pride of observation and remark — a constitutional melancholy or 
hypochondriasm that made nie lly to solitude ; add to these 
incentives to social hie, \n\ reputation for bookish knowledge, a 
certain wild logical talent, and a strength of thought, something 
like the rudiments of good sense, and it will not seem surprising 
that I was generally a welcoiTie guest where. I visitjtd, or any 
great wonder that, always \vhere two or three met together, 
there was I among them. But far beyond all other impulses of 
my heart, was un penchant a V adorable moitie dn genre 
humain. 'My heart was completely tinder, and was eternallj' 
lighted up by some goddess or other ; and, as in every other 
warfare in this world, my fortune was various, sometimes I was 
received with favour, and sometimes I was mortiiied with a 
repulse. At the plough, scythe, or reaphook, I feared no com- 
petitor, and thus 1 set absolute want atdeliance; and as 1 never 
cared farther for my labours than while I was in actual exercise, 
I spent the evenings in the way after my own heart. A country 
lad seldom carries on a love-adventure without an assisting 
confidant. I possessed a cui-iosity, zeal, and intrepid dexterity, 
that recommended me as a proper second on these occasions ; 
and 1 dare say I felt as much pleasure in being in the secret of half 
the loves of the parish of Tarbolton, as ever did statesinati in 
knowing the intrigues of half the courts of Europe. The very 
goose-feather in my hand seems to know instinctively the well- 
worn path of my imagination, the favourite theme of my song, 
and is with ditHculty restrained from giving you a couple of 
paragraphs on the love-advcntur's of my compeers, the humble 
2 c3 



f^ 



18 LIFE OP BUKNS 

inmates of the farm-nouse and cottage ; but the grave men of 
science, ambition, or avarice, baptise the?e things by the name 
of f jUies. To the sons and daughters of labour and poverty 
thej'' ai"e matters of the most serious nature; to them, the 
ardent hope, the stolen interview, the tender farewell, are the 
greatest and most delic'ous parts of their enjoyments.'' 

"Another circumstance in my life which made some alteration 
in my mind and manners was, that I spent my nineteenth 
summer on a smuggling coast, a good distance from home, at 
a noted school, to learn mensuration, surveying, diaUing, &c., 
in wdiich I made a pretty good progress. But I made a greatci- 
progress in the knowledge of mankind. The contraband trade 
was at that time very successful, and it sometimes happe:ied to 
me to i'all in with those who carried it on. Scenes of swagger- 
ing riot and roaring dissipation were till this time new to me ; 
but I was no enemy to social life. Here, though 1 learnt to till 
my glass, and to mix without fear in a drunken squabble, yet I 
went on with a high hand with mjr geometry', till the sun 
entered Virgo, a month which is always a carnival in my bosom, 
when a charming jiJette, who lived next door to the school, 
overset my trigonometry, and set me off at a tangent from the 
sphere of my studies. I, however, struggled on with my sines 
and co-sines for a few dajs more ; but stepping into the garden 
one channing noon to take the sun's altitvide, there I met my 
angel, 

' Like Proserpine, gathering flowers, 
Harself a fairer flower ' 

Jt was in vain to think of doing any more good at school. The 
remaining week I staid I did nothing but craze the faculties of 
my soul about her, or steal out to meet her ; and the two last 
nights of my stay in the country, had sleep been a mortal sin, 
the image of this modest and innocent girl had kept nxe 
guiltless." 

" I^'eturned home very considerably improved. My reading 
was enlarged with the very important addition of Thompson's 
and Shenstone's Works. I had seen human nature in a new 
phasis ; and I engaged several of vny school-fellows to keep up 
;v literary correspondence \\\i\\ me. This improved me in 
composition. I had met with a collection of letters by the wits 
of Queen Anne's reign, and 1 pored over thcni most devoutl}^; 
I kept copies of anj^ of my own letters that pleased me; and a 
comparison between them and the composition of most of my 
correspondejits flattered my vanity, I had carried this whim so 
far, that though I had not three farthings' worth of business in 
the world, yet almost every post brought me as manj^ letters as 
if I had been a broad plodding son of day-book and ledger." 

" My life flowed on much in the- same course till my twenty- 
third year. Vive Vamotir, et vive la bagatelle, were my sole 
principles of action. The addition of two more authors to my 
library gave me great iileasure; Sterne and M'Kenzie. Tristram 
Shandy and Tlie Man of Feeling were m\' bosom favourites. 
Poesy was still a darling walk lor my mind, but it was oiJy 



LUCKLESS FARMING SPECULATION. 



19 



indul-oa m rxcoonliiis to the humour cf tne hour. 1 had 
usiK.fly half a clo/.on or more pieces ot. hand; i took 
up one or other, a.s it suited the momentary tone of the mmd, 
and dismissed the work as it bordered on fatigue. My passions 
when once lighted up, raged like so many devils, till they got 
vnit in rhvme ; and then tlie conning over my verses, like a 
spell, soothed all into quiet ! None of the rhymes ot those days 
are in print, except Winter, a Dirge, the eldest of my prmtetl 
pieces ; The death of Poor Mailie, John Barleycorn and sonars 
first, second, and third. Song second was the ebullition of that 
passion which ended the fore-mentioned school business. 

" IMv twenty-third year was to me an important era. 1 artly 
through whim, and partly that I wished to set about doing some, 
thing^in life, I joined a flax-dresser in a neighbounng town, 
(Irvine.) to learn his trade. This was an unlucky aflair. My 
* * *• and, to tinish the whole, as we were giving a welcome 
carou'-al to the new-year, the shop took fire, and burnt to ashes, 
and I was left, like a true poet, not worth a sixpence. ^ . 

" I was obliged to eive up the scheme : the clouds of mistor- 
tune were gatherin- thick round my father's head ; and, what 
was worst of all, he was visibly far gone in a consumption ; and, 
to crown my distresses, a helle fill e ^yhom I ^dorcd, and who 
had pleilged her soul to meet mc in the field of matnmony, 
jilted me, with peculiar circumstances of mortihcation. ihe 
finishing evil that brought up the rear of this internal tile, was 
m v constitutional melancholy beingincreasedto such a degree, that 
for three months I was in a state of mind scarcelj'to ^envied 
by the hopeless wTetches who have got their mittimus— -Depart 
fro7n me, ye accursed!" i-r v ♦ 

From this adventure I learned something of a town life ; but 
the principal thing which gave my mind a turn was a tnendship 
I formed with a young fellow, a very noble character, but a hap- 
less son of misfortune. He was the son of a simple mechanic : 
but a great man in the neighbourhood taking him under his 
patrona£:e, gave him a genteel education, wnth a view ot bettering 
his situation in life. The patron dying just as he was reads' to 
launch out into the world, the poor fellow m despair went to 
sea where, after a variety of good and ill fortune, a little betore 
I was acquainted with him, be had been set on shore by an Ame- 
rican privateer, on the wild coast of Connaught, stripped of ever^- 
tliin^! I cannot auit this poor fellow's story wnthout adding, 
that he is at this time master of a large West-Indiaman belong- 
ing to the Thames." , • -i. j 
His mind was fraudit with independence, magnamnuty, and 
every manly virtue. ^I loved and admired him to a degi-ee of 
enthusiasm, and of com^se strove to imitate him. In some mea. 
sure I succeeded — I had pride before me, but he taught it to 
flow in proper channels. His knowledge of the world was v astly 
superior to mine, and I was all attention to learn. He was the 
only man I ever saw who was a greater fool than myselt whero 
woman was the presiding star ; but he spoke of Uhcit love witb 
the levity of a sailor, which hitherto I had regarded with hor- 
ror Here his friendship did me a mischief; and the conse- 



20 LIFE OF BURNS. 

qnence was, tnat sooii after I resumed tne plough, I wrote the 
Poet's Welcome, My reading only increased, while in this 
town, hy two stray volumes of Pamela, and one of Ferdinand 
Count Fathom, which gave me some idea of novels. Rhyme, 
:!xcept some religious pieces that are in print, I had given up ; 
hut meeting with Fergusson's Scottish Poems, I strung anew 
my wildly-sounding lyre \vith emulating vigour. When my 
father died, his all went among the hell-hounds that prowl in 
the kennel of justice; but we made a shift to collect a little 
money in the family among us, with which to keep us together ; 
my brother and I took a neighbouring farm. My brother 
wanted my hair-brained imagination, as well as vay social and 
amorous madness; but in good sense, and every other sober 
qualification, he was far my superior." 

" I entered on this farm with a full resolution. Come, go to, 
I tvill be ivise ! I read farming books ; I calculatetl crops ; 
I attended markets — and, in short, hi spite of the devil, and 
the world, and the flesh, I belie^'e I should have been a wise 
man; but the tirstyear, from ufrfortunately buying bad seed, the 
second, from a late harvest, we lost half our crops. This overset 
all my wisdom, and I returned, like the dog to his vomit, and 
the sow that was toashed, to her wallowing in the mire." 

" I now began to be known in the neighbourhood as a maker 
of rliymes. The first of my poetic offspring that saw the light 

• was a burlesque-lamentation on a quarrel between two reverend 
Calvinists, both of them dramatis personce in my Holy Fair. 
I had a notion myself that the piece had some merit ; but to 
prevent the worst, I gave a copy of it to a friend who was fond 
of such things, and told him that I could not guess who was 
the author of it, but that I thought it pretty clever. With a 
certain description of the clergy, as well as laity, it met with a roar 
of applause. Holy Wilhe's Prayer next made its appearance, and 
alarmed the kirk session so much, that they held several meet- 
ings to look over their spiritual artillery, if haply any of it might 
be pointed against profane writers. Unluckily for me, my wan- 
derings led me on another side, within point-blank shot of their 

' heaviest metal. This is the unfortunate story that gave rise to 
my printed poem — The Lament. This was a most melancholy 
affair, which I cannot yet bear to reflect on, and had very nearly 
given me one or two of the principal qualifications for a place 
among those who have lost the chart, and mistaken the reckon- 
ing, of .rationality. I gave up my part of the farm to my bro- 
ther — in truth it was only nominally mine — and made what little 
preparation was in my power for Jamaica. But before leaving 
my native country for ever, I resolved to publish my poems. 
I weighed my prqductions as impartially as was in my power : I 
thought they had merit, and it was a dehcions idea that I should 
be called a clever fellow, even though it should never reach my 
ears — a poor negro-driver ; or perhaps a victim to that inhospi- 
table cUme, and gone to the world of spirits ! I can truly say, 
thac pauvre inconnu as I then was, I had pretty nearly as high 
an idea of myself and of my works as I have at this moment, 
when the pubhc has decided in their favour. It ever was my 



LUCKLESS FARM I NO SPECU li.TION - 21 

opinion, that the mistakes and bhinders, both in a rational and 
religions point of view, of which we see thousands dail}' gnilty, 
ore Orting to their igjiorance of tlicniselvcs. To know mysell 
bad been all along my constant study. I weighed myself alone. 
I balanced myself with others — I watched every means of 
information, to see how much ground I occupied as a man and 
as a poet ; — 1 studied 'vssiduously Nature's design in my forma- 
tion — where the lights and shades in my character w^ro 
intended. I was pretty confident my poems would meet with 
some applause ; but, at the worst, the roar of the Atlantic would 
deafen censure, and the novelty of West-Indian scenes make 
mo forget neglect. I threw oft" six hundred copies, of wdiich 1 
had got subscriptions for about three hundred and liity. My 
vanity was highly gratilied by the reception I met with from 
the public ; and, besides, I pocketed, all expenses deducted, 
nearly twenty pounds. This sum came very seasonably, as I 
was thinking of indenting myself, for want of money to procure 
my passage. As soon as I was master of nine guineas, the price 
of wafting me to the torrid zone, I took a steerage passage in 
the first ship that was to sail from the Clyde ; for 

' Hmigry ruin had me in the wind.' 

" I had been for some days skulking from covert to covert, 
under all the terrors of a jail ; as some ill-advised people had 
uncoupled the merciless pack of the law at my heels. I had 
taken the last farew ell of my few friends ; my chest was on the 
road to Greenock ; I had composed the last song 1 should ever 
measure in Caledonia — The Gloomy Night is Gathering Fast- 
when a letter from Dr. Blacklock to a friend of mine overthrew 
all my schemes, by opening new prospects to my poetic ambi- 
tion. Tue doctor belonged to a set of critics for whose applause 
I had not dared to hope. His opinion, that I would meet with 
encouragement in Edinburgh for a second edition, fired rr c so 
much, that away I posted for that city, without a single acquaint- 
ance, or a single letter of introduction. The banefid star that 
had so long shed its blasting influence in my zenith, for once 
made a revolution to the nadir ; and a kind Providence placed 
me under the patronage of one of the noblest of men, the Earl 
ofGlencairn. Obliemoi, Gh'and Dieii, si jamais jcVohlie!" 

" I need relate no farther. At Edinburgh 1 was in a new 
world ; I mingled among many classes of men, but all of them 
new to me, and I was all attention to catch the characters and 
the mcmners living as they rise. Whether I have profited tima 
will shew. * * * " 

" My most respectful compliments to Miss W. Her very 
elegant and friendly letter I cannot answer at present, as my 
presence is requisite in Edinbm-gh, and I set out to-nioiTow." 

At the period of our poet's death, his brother, Gilbert B.irns, 
was ignorant that he had himself writte»i the foregoing nurra- 
tive of his Ufe while in AjTshire ; and having been apphed to by 
Mrs. Dunlop for some memoir of his brother, he cornel ied wiia 
her request in a le:^tcr, from which the following n*. tivo is 
chiefly extracted. When Gilbert Burns afterwards saw the letter 



22 LtFK OF BURNS. 

of our poet to Dr. IMoore, he made some aiaiotati iis it^ on it, 
wliicli shall be noticed as we proceed. 

Robert B'lrns was born on the 25th day of January, 179.5, ic 
a small house about two miles from the town of A}t, and wilhin 
a few hundred yards of AUoway church, which his poem of Tam 
o' Shanter has rendered immortal. The name, which the poet 
ana his brother modernised into Burns, was originally Burncsor 
Burness. Tiieir father, William Burnes, was the sou of a farmer 
in Kincardineshire, and had received the education common in 
Scotland to persons in his condition of life ; he could read and 
write, and had some knowledge of arithmetic. His family 
having fallen into reduced circumstances, he was compelled to 
leave his home in his nineteenth year, and turned his steps 
towards the south, in quest of a livelihood. The same necessity 
attended his elder brother Robert. " I have often heard my 
father" (says Gilbert Burns, in his letter to Mrs. Duulop), 
" describe the anguish of mind he felt when they parted on the 
top of a hill on the confines of their native place, each going off 
his several way in search of new adventures, and scarcely know- 
ing w hither he went. My father undertook to act as a gar- 
dener, and shaped his course to Edinburgh, where he wrought 
hard when he could get work, passing through a variety of diffi- 
culties. Still, however, he endeavoured to spare something for 
the support of his aged parent; and I recollect hearing him men- 
tion his having sent a bank-note for this purpose, when money 
of that kind was so scarce in Kincardineshire, that they scarcely 
knew how to employ it when it arrived." From Eiliuburgh 
William Burns passed westward into the county of Aj-r, where 
he engaged himself as a gardener to the Laird of Fairly, witli whom 
he lived two years ; then changing his service for that of (Jravv- 
ford of Uoonside. At length, being desirous of settling in life, 
he took a perpetual lease of seven acres of land from Dr. Camp- 
bell, phj'sician in Ayr, with the view of commencing nursery- 
man and pubhc gardener ; and, having built a house upon it 
with his own hands, married, in December, 1757, Agnes Brown, 
the mother of our poet, who still survives. The tii-st fruit of 
this marriage was Robert, the subject of these memoirs, bora 
on the 25th of January, 1759, as has already been mentioned. 
Before William Burns had made much progress in preparing 
his nursery, he was withdrawn from that undertaking by Mr. 
Fergvison, who pin-chased the estate of Doonholra, in the imme- 
diate neiglibourhood, and engaged him as his gardener and over- 
seer; and this was his situation when our poet was born. 
Though in the service of Mr. Ferguson, he lived in his own 
house, his wife managing her family and her little dairy, which 
consisted sometimes of two, sometimes of three milch cows ; and 
this state of unambitious content continued till the year 1766. 
His son Robert was sent by him in his sixth year to a school at 
Alloway Miln, about a mile distant, taught by a person of the 
name of Cambell; but this teacher being in a few montho 
appointed master of the workhouse at Ayr, William Burnes, in 
conjunction with some other heads of familioft, engaged John 
^f urdoch in his .itead. The education of our poet, and of hia 



WILLIAM BURNES OR BURNS. ^3 

jTOtlier jilbcrt, was in common ; and of their proficiency under 
Mr. Murdodi, we liavc tlie following account: — " With him w« 
learnt to read En,c?lisli tolerably well, and to write a little. Hi. 
tdUi^ht us, too, the Enj^lish p:rammar. I was too youn},^ to profit 
much from his lessons in graumiar, but I\ob(>rt made sonui pr:*- 
liciency in it — a circumstance of considerable wt'ii,^ht in :h? 
uufcildiiii^ of bis genius and character, as he soon became remarka- 
ble for the fluency and correctness of his expression, and r.ad 
the i'ew books that came in his way with much pleasure an 
improvement : for even then be was a reader when he ccnild gi\ 
a book. Murdoch, whose library at that time had no groi" 
variet}' in it, lent him The Life of Hannibal, which was tlie first 
book he read, (the school-books excepted), and almost the only 
one he had the opportunity of reading while he was at school ; 
for The Life of Wallace, which he classes with it in one of ids 
letters to you, he did not see for some years afterwards, when 
he borrowed it from the blacksmith who shod our horses." 

It appears that William IJurncs approved himself greatly in 
the service of Air. Ferguson, by his intelligence, industry, and 
integrity. In consequence of this, with a view of promoting 
his interest, Mr. Ferguson leased him a farm, of which we have 
the following account : — 

" The farm was ujjwards of seventy acres, (between eighty and 
ninet}' English statute measure), the rent of which was to l»e 
forty pounds annually for the fu'st six years, and afterwards 
forty-tive i)Ounds. Aly father endeavoured to sell his leasehold 
property, for the purpose of stocking bis farm, but at that time 
was unable, and Mr. Ferguson lent him a hundred pounds for 
that purjDose. He removed to his new situation at Wlntsuntide, 
176(5. It was, I think, not aljove two years after this that Mur- 
doch, our tutor and friend, left this jiart of the country, and 
there being no school near us, and our little services being useful 
on the farm, my father undertook to teach us arithmetic in the 
winter evenings, by candle-light ; and in this way my two eldest 
sisters got all the education they received. I remember a cir- 
cumstance that happened at this time, which, though trifling in 
itself, is fresh in my memory, and may serve to illustrate the 
early character of my brother. Murdoch came to spend anight 
with us, and to take his leave when he was about to go into 
Carrick. He brought us, as a present and memorial of him, a 
small compendium of F]nglish grammar, and the tragedj'^ of 
Titus Andronicus, and, by way of passing the evening, he began 
to read the play aloud. We were all attention for some time, 
till presently the whole party was dissolved in tears. A female 
in the play (I have but a confused rememljrance of it), had her 
hands chopped off, and her tongue cut out, and then was insult- 
ingly desired to call for water to wash her hantls. At this, in 
an agony of distress, we with one voice desired he would read 
no more. My father observed, that if we would not hear it out 
it would be needless to leave the play with us, Robert replied 
that if it was left he would burn it. My father was going to 
chide him for this ungratefid return to his tutor's kindness, but 
Mui'doch interfered, declaring that he liked to sec so mucli sen* 



24 LIFE OP BURNS. 

fiHility ; and he left the School for Love, a comedy, translated 
I fh'nk frnm the French, in its place." 

" IS'othiiig-," continues Giii.iert Burns, " could be more 
rrtircd than our 5i::eneval niannev of living at Mount Olipliant; 
wo rarely saw anybody but the members of our own family. 
I'here were no boys of our own age, or near it, in the neigh- 
bourhood. Indeed, the greatest part of the land in the vicinit}' 
was at that time possesse^l by shopkeepers, and people of that 
stamp, who had retired from business, or who kept their farm 
in the country, at the same time that they lollowed business in 
town. My father was for some time almost the only companio:i 
we b.ad. He conversed famiharly on all subjects with us, as if 
we had l)ecn men ; and was at great pains, while we accompanied 
him in the labours of the farm, to lead the conversation to such 
subjects as might tend to increase our knowledge, or confirm us 
in virtuous habits. He borrowed Salomon's Geographical Gram- 
mar for us, and endeavoured to make us acquainted with the 
situation and history of the dificrent countries of the world ; 
while from a book society in Ayr, he procured for us the reading 
of Durham's Physico and Astro-Theology, and Hay's Wisdom 
of God in the Creation, to give lis some idea of astronomy and 
natural history, Robert read all these books with an avidity 
and industry scarcely to be equalled. My father had been a 
subscriber to Stackhouse's Histoiy of the Bi^jle, then lately pub- 
lished by James M euros in Kilmarnook ; from this Robert col- 
lected a competent knowledge of ancient histor}' ; for no book 
was so voluminous as to slacken his industry, or so antiquated 
as to damp his researches. A brother of my mother, who had 
lived with us some time, and had learned some arithmetic by 
our winter evening's candle, went into a bookseller's shop at Ayr, 
to purchase The Ready Reckoner, or Tradesman's Sure Guide, 
and a book to teach him to write letters. Luckily, in place of 
The Complete Letter Writer, he got by mistake a small collec- 
tion of letters by the most eminent writers, with a few sensible 
directions for attaining an easy epistolary style. Tins book 
was to Robert of the greatest consequence. It inspired him 
with a strong desire to excel in letter-writing, while it furnished 
him with models by some of the first writers in our language." 

" My brother was about thirteen or fourteen, when my father, 
regretting that we w rote so iU, sent us, week about, during a 
summer quarter, to the parish school of Dalrymple, which, 
thougli between two and three miles distant, was the nearest to 
us, that we might have an opportunity of remedying this defect. 
About this time a bookish acquaintance of my father's procured 
us a reading of two volumes of Richardson's Pamela, which was 
the hi-st novel we read, and the only part of Richardson's works 
my brother was acquainted with till the period of his commenc- 
ing author. Till that time, too, he remained unacquainted with 
Fielding, with Smollett, (two volumes of Ferdinand Count 
Fathom, and two vokimes of Peregrine Pickle excepted,) wnh 
Hume, with Robertson, and almost all our authors of eminence 
of the later times. I recollect, indeed, my fathfir borrowed a 
"olume of English history from Mr. Hamilton of Bourtreehill'ii 



BiniNS STUDIKS LATIN. 25 

j^nrdonor. It troatod of the reign of James I., and his unfortii- 
n-.Uo son Charles, but 1 do not know who was the author ; all 
that I remember of it was something of Charles's conversation 
with his children. About this time, IMurdoch, our fonuer 
teacher, after liavin-^ beenindillmMit jilaces in the country, and 
having taught a scliool some time in Dumfries, came to be tlin 
established teacher of the English language in Ayr, a circum- 
stance of consequence to us. The remembrance of my father's 
former friendship, and his attachment to my brother, made hiin 
do everything in liis power lor our improvement. He sent us 
Pope's works, and some other poetry, tlio lirst that we had an 
opportunity of reading, excepting what is contained in the Eng- 
lish Collection, and in the volume of the Edinburgh Magazine 
for 1772 ; excepting also tJiosc excellent ncio songs that are 
hawked about the country in baskets, or e-^posed on stalls in the 
streets." 

" The summer after wa had been at Dalrymple school, my 
father sent llobert to Ayr, to revise his EngUsh grammar with 
his former teacher. He had been there only one week, when he 
was obliged to return to assist at the harvest. When the 
harvest was over, he went back to school, where he remained 
two weeks ; and this completes the account of his school educa- 
tion, excepting one summer quartei", some time afterwards, that 
he attended the parish school of Kirkoswald, (where he lived 
with a brother of my mother's,) to learn surveying." 

" During the two last weeks that he was with Murdoch, lie 
himself was engaged in learning French, and he communicated 
the instructions he received to ray hrother, who, when he 
returned, brought home with him a French dictionary and 
grammar, and the Adventm-es of Telemachus in the original. 
In a little while, with the assistance of these books, he had 
acquired such a knowledge of the language, as to read and under- 
stand any French author in prose. This was considered as a 
sort of prodigy, and through tlie medium of Murdoch, procured 
him the acquaintance of several lads in Ajt, who were at that 
time galil)Ung French, and the notice of some families, particu- 
larly that of Dr. JNIalcolm, where a knowledge of French was 
a recommendation." 

" Observing the facility with which he had acquired tlu- French 
language, Mr. Robinson, the established --vriting-master in Ayr, 
and Mr. Murdoch's jiarticular friend, having himself acquired a 
considerable knowledge of the Latin langu.-xge t)}' his own indus- 
try, without ever having learned it at scliool, advised Robert to 
make the same attempt, promising him every assistance in his- 
power. Agreeably to this advice, he purchased the rudiments 
of the Latin Tongue, but finding the study dr^- and uninterest- 
ing, it was quickly laid aside. He frequently returned to his 
Rudiments on any little chagrin or disappointment, particularly 
in his 'love affairs ; but the Latin seldom predominated more than 
a day or tvro at a time, or a week at most. Observing himself 
the ridicule that would attach to this sort of conduct if it were 
Known, he matle two or three humourous stanzas on the subject, 
which I cannot now recollect, but they all ended, 

' So I'll to my Lathi again." it 



-■=zS 



26 



LIFE OF BURNS. 



" Tnu3 you see Mr. Murdoch was a principal means of my 
brother's improvement. Worthy man ! though foreign to my 
present purpose, I cannot take leave of him without tracing his 
future history. He continued for some years a respected aud 
useful teacher at Ayr, till one evening that he had been over- 
taken in liquor, he happened to speak somewhat disrespectfully 
of Dr. DalrjTiiplc, the parish minister, who had not paid him 
that attention to which he thought himself entitled. In Ayr he 
might as well have spoken blasphemy. He found it proper to 
give up his appointment. He went to London, where he still 
lives, a private teacher of French. He has been a considerable 
time married, and keeps a shop of stationery wares." 

" The father of Dr. Paterson, now physician at Ayr, was, I 
believe, a native of Aberdeenshire, and was one of the established 
teachers in Ayr when my father settled in the neighbourhood. 
He earlj' recognised my father as a fellow native of the north of 
Scotland, and a certain degree of intimacy subsisted between 
them dm-ing Mr. Paterson's life. After his death, his widow, 
who is a very genteel woman, and of great worth, delighted in 
doing what she thought her husband would have wished to have 
done, and assiduously kept up her attentions to aU his acquaint- 
ances. She kept alive the intimacy with our familj'^, by fre- 
quently inviting my father and mother to her house on Sundays, 
when she met them at church." 

" Wlien she came to know my brother's passion for books, 
she kindly offered us the use of her husband's library, and from 
her we got the Spectator, Pope's Translation of Homer, and 
several other books that were of use to us. Mount Oliphant, 
the farm mj'^ father possessed in the parish of Ayr, is almost the 
poorest soil I know of in a state of cultivation. A stronger proof 
of this I cannot give than that, notwithstaudinrj the extraordi- 
nary rise in the value of lands in Scotland, it was let, after a 
considerable sum had been laid out in improving it by the pro- 
prietor, a few years ago, five pounds per annum lower than the 
rent paid for it by my father thirty years ago. My father, in 
consequence of this, soon came into difficulties, which were 
increased by the loss of several of his cattle by accidents and 
disease. To the buffetings of misfortune we could only oppose 
liard labour and tlie most rigid econom3\ We lived very spar- 
ingly. For several years butcher's meat was a stranger in the 
house, while aU the members of the familj^ exerted themselves 
to the utmost of their streiigth, and rather beyond it, in the 
labours of the farm. My brother, at the age of thirteen, assisted 
in thrashing the crop of corn, and at fifteen was the principal 
labourer on the farm, for we had no hired servant, male or 
female. The anguish of mind we felt, at our tender years, under 
these straits and difficulties, was, indeed, very great. To 
think of our father growing old (for he was now above fifty), 
broken do\vn with the long-continued fatigues of his hfe, with a 
wife and five other cliildreii, and in a declining state of circum- 
Btauces — these reflections produced in my brother's mind and 
jnine sensations of the dsepcst distress. I doubt not but the 
aard bbour aud sorrow of this period of his hfe was iu a great 



"WILLIAM BURNES OR BURNS. 27 

measure the cause of that depression of spirits with which 
Robert was s^ often aliiicted through his whole Hfe afterwards. 
At this time he was ahnost constantly alllictcd in the evenings 
with a dull headache, which, at a future period of his hfe, was 
exchanged for a palpitation of the heart, and a threatening of 
fainting and suffocation in his bed in the night-time." 

" 13y a stipulation in my father's lease, he had a right to throw 
it up, if he thought fit, at the end of every sixth year. He 
attempted to fix himself in a better farm at the end of the first 
six years, but tailing in that attempt, he continued where he wiia 
for sL\ years more. ' He then took the farm ofLochlea, of 130 
acres, at the rent of twenty shillings an acre, in the parish of 

Tarbolton, of JMr. , then u merchant in Ayr, and now 

(1797) a merchant in Liverpool. He removed to this farm on 
Whit-Smiday, 1777, and possessed it only seven years. No 
WTiting had ever been made out of the conditions of the lease ; 
a misunderstanding took place respecting them ; the subjects in 
dispute were submitted to arbitration, and the decision involved 
my father's affairs in ruin. He lived to know of this decision, 
but not to see any execution in consequence of it. He died on 
13th of February, 1784." 

" The seven years we lived in Tarbolton parish (extending 
from the 19th to the 26th year of mj' brother's age), were not 
marked by much literary improvement ; but during this time 
the foundation was laid of certain habits in my brother's 
character, which afterwards became but too prominent, and 
which malice and envy have taken delight to enlarge on. Though 
when young he was bashful and awkward in his intercourse with 
women, yet, when he approached manhood, his attachn:ient to 
their society became very strong, and he was constantly the vic- 
tim of some fair enslaver. The symptoms of his passion were 
often such as nearly to equal those of the celebrated Sappho. I 
never indeed knew that he fainted, sunk, and died away ; 
but the agitations of his mind and body exceeded anything of 
the kind 1 ever knew in real life. He had always a particular 
jealousy of people who were richer than himself, or who had 
more consequence in life. His love, therefore, rarely settled on 
persons of this description. When he selected any one out of 
the sovereignty of his good pleasure, to whom he should pay 
his particular attention, she was instantly invested with a suffi- 
cient stock of charms, out of the plentiful stores of his own 
imagination ; and there was often a great dissimilitude between 
his fair captivator, as she appeared to others, and as she seemed 
when invested in the attribut'CS he gave her. One generally 
reigned paramount in his affections ; but as Yorisk's affections 
flowed out towards Madame de L — at the remise door, while 
the eternal vows of Eliza were upon \ma., so Robert v>'as fro- 
quently encountering other attractions, which formed so many 
underplots in the di'ama of his love. As these conjiections wero 
governed by the strictest rules of virtue and modesty (from which 
ho never deviated till he reached his 23rd year), he became 
anxious to be in a situation to marry. Tins was not likely soon 
to be the case while he remained a farmer as the stocking of thn 



S8 LIFE OF BTTEN8. 

farm required a sum of money he had no probabiliU' of bang 
master of for a great while. He began, therefore, to think ol _ 
trying some other line of life, He and I had for several years 
taken land of my father for the purpose of raising tlax on our 
own actount. In the course of selling it, Kobert began to think 
of turning llax-dresser, both as being suitable to his grand view 
of settling in life, and as subservient to the flax raising. He 
accordingly wrought at ihe business of a flax-dresser in Irvine 
for six months, but abanaoned it at that period, as neither 
agreeing with his health nor inclination. In Irvine he had con- 
tracted some acquaintance of a freer maimer of thinking and 
living than he had been used to, whose society prepared him 
for overleaping the bounds of rigid virtue which had hitherto 
restrained him. Towards the end of the ]:)eriod under review, 
(in his 26th year,) and soon after his father's death, he was for- 
nished with the subject of his epistle to John Kankin. During 
this period also he became a freemason, which was his first intro- 
duction to the life of a boon companion. Yet, notwitlistanding 
the circumstiinccs and the praise he has bestowed on Scotch 
drink, (which seems to have misled his historians,) I do not 
re:;ollect, during these seven years, nor till towards the eiid of 
his commencing author, (wlieu his growing celebrity occasioned 
his being often in company) to have ever seen him intoxicated ; 
nor was he at all given to drinking. A stronger proof of the 
general sobnety of his conduct need not be required than what 
I am about to give. During the whole of the time we lived in 
Lochlea with my father, he allowed my brother and me such 
wages for our labour as he gave to other labourers, as a part of 
vvliich, every article of our clothing manufactured in the famil}'- 
was regularly accounted for. When my father's afl'airs drew 
near a crisis, Robert and I took the farm of Mossgiel, consisting 
of 118 acres, at the rent of £90 per annum, (the farm on which' 
I live at present,) from Mr. Gavin Hamilton, as an asyhim for 
the family in case of the worst. It was stocked by the pro,perty 
and individuftl savings of the whole family, and was a joint con- 
cern among us. Every member of thefamil3^ was allowed ordi- 
nary wages for the labour he performed on the farm. My bro- 
ther's allowance and mine was seven pounds per annum each, 
and during tlie whole time this family concern lasted, which 
was for four years, as well as during the preceding period at 
Lochlea, his expenses never in any one year exceeded his slender 
income. As I was entrusted with the keeping of the family- 
accounts, it is not possible that there can be any fallacy in this 
statement in my brother's favour. His temperance and fi'uga- 
lity were everything that could be wished." 

" The farm of Mossgiel lies very high, and mostly on a cold 
wet bottom. The first four years that we were on the farm 
were very frosty, and the spring was very late ; our crops in 
consequence were very unprofitable ; and, notwithstanding our 
utmost dihgence and economy, we found ourselves obliged to 
give up our bargain, with the loss of a considerable part of oav 
original stock. It was during these four years that Robert 
foi-med his connexion with Jean Armour, afterwards Mw- 



BURNS AX M083GIKL. 29 

Burns. Tliis councxion could no longer he concealed about the 
time \i-c came to a final (letermination to quit the farm, liolwrt 
dui-Bt not eai^a^e with a fuuiily iu his poor unsettled state, 
but was anxious to shield liis partner, ))y every means in hid 
power, Irom the consequences of their imprudence. It was 
afrn>ed, therefore, between them, that they should make a le^,'al 
acknowledgment of an irrouular and private marriaLje ; and that 
he should go to Jamaica to push Ms fortune ; and that she 
should remain with her iatlier till it might please Providence 
to put the means sf supporting a family in his power." 

" iMrs. Burns was a great favourite of her father's. The inti- 
mation of a marriage was the first suggestion he received of her 
real situation, lie was in the greatest distress, and fainted 
away. The marriage did not appear to him to make the matter 
better. A husband in Jamaica appeared to him and his wife 
httle better than none, and an ellectual bar to any other pros- 
pects of a settlement in life that their daughter might have. 
They therefore expressed a wish to her, that the written jiapers 
which respected the marriage should be cancelled, and thus tlie 
marriage rendered void. In her melancholy state, she felt tlie 
deepest remorse at having brought such heavy ailliction on her' 
parents, who loved her so tenderly, and submitted to their 
entreaties. Their wish was mentioned to Kobcrt. He felt the 
deepest anguish of mind. He oifered to stay at home and pro- 
vide for his wife and famil}'^ in the best manner that bis daily 
labours could provide for them, that Ijeing tlie only means in 
his power. Even this ofter they did not approve of; forluuuble 
as Miss Armour's station was, and tliough great her imprudence 
had been, she still, in the eyes of her partial parents, might 
look to a better connexion than that with my friendless and 
unhappy brother, at that time without house or hiding-place. 
Robert at length consented to their wishes; but his feehngs on 
this occasion were of the most distracting nature: and the 
.impression of sorrow was not effaced till b}' a regular marriage 
they were iudissolubly united. In the state of mind which tliis 
separation produced, he wished to leave the country as soon as 
[)ossible, and agreed with Dr. Douglas to go out to Jamaica as 
an assistant overseer, or, as I believe it is called, a bookkeeper, 
on his estate. As he had not sufficient monej' to pay his pas- 
sage, and the vessel in wdiich Dr. Douglas was to procure a pas- 
sage for him was not expected to sail for some time, j\Ir. Hamil- 
ton advised him to publish his poems in the mean time b}' sub- 
scription, as a likely way of getting a little money, to provide 
him more hberally in necessaries in Jamaica. Agreeably to this 
advice, subsci-iption-bills were printed immediately, and the 
printing was commenced at Kilmarnock, his preparations going 
on at the same time for his voyage. The reception, however, 
which his poems met with in the world, and the friends they 
procured him, auide him change his resolution of going to 
Tamaica, and lie was advised to go to Edinburgh to publish a 
second edition. On his return, in happier circumstjinces, ho 
renewed his connection with Mrs. Burns, and rendered it per* 
uiauent by a union for Ufe." 

d3 



so lilFE OF BURNS. 

"Thus, madam, have I endeavoured to give you a simple 
narrative of the leading ci'-cumstances in my brother's early life- 
The remaining part he spent in Edinburgh, or in Dumfriesshire, 
and its incidents are as well known to you as to me. His genius 
having procured him your patronage and friendship, this gav4» 
rise to the correspondence between you, in whicli, I behove, his 
sentiments were delivered with the most respectful, ])ut most 
unreserved confidence, and which only terminated with the last 
daj's of his life." 

The narrative of Gilbert Burns may serve as a commentary 
\ on the preceding sketch of our poet's life by himself. It will 
be seen that the distraction of mind which he mentions arose 
from the distress and sorrow in which he had involved his future 
wife. The whole circumstances attending this connexion are 
certainly of a very singular nature. 

The reader will perceive, from the foregoing narrative, how 
much the children of WiUiam Burnes were indebted to their 
father, who was certaiidy a man of uncommon talents, though 
it does not appear that he possessed any portion of that vivid 
imagination for which the subject of these memoirs was (hstin- 
guished. In a former page it is observed by our poet, that his 
father had an unaccountable antipathy to dancing-schools, and 
that his attending one of these brought on him his displeasure and 
even dislike. On this observation Gilbert has made the following 
remark, which seems entitled to imphcit credit : — "I wonder 
how Koljert could attribute to our father that lasting resentment 
of his going to a dancing- school against his will, of wdiich he 
was incapable. I bcJieve the truth was, that he, about this 
time, began to see the dangerous impetuositj' of iny brother's 
passions, as well as his not being amenable to counsel, which 
often irritated my father, and which he woidd naturally think a 
dancing-school was not likely to correct. But he was proud of 
Robert's genius, which he bestowed more expense in cultivating: 
than on the rest of the familj', in the instances of sending him 
to Ayr and Kirkoswald schools ; and he \vas greatly delighted- 
with his warmth of heart and his conversational powers. He 
had, indeed, that dislike of dancing-schools which Robert men- 
tions, but so far overcame it during Robert's first month of 
attendance, that he allowed all the rest of the family that were 
fit for it to accompany him during the second month, l^obert 
excelled in dancing, and w^as for some time distractedly fond 
of it." 

" In the original letters to Dr. ]\Ioore, our poet described his 
ancestors as renting lands of the noble Keiths of Marischal, 
and having had the honour of sharing their fate." " I do not," 
continues he, " use the word Jionor with any reference to pohti- 
cal principles ; loi/al and disloyal I take to be merely relative 
terms, in that ancient and formidable court, known in the 
country as Club-law, where the right is alwaj^s with the strongest. 
But those who doie welcome ruin, and shake hands with infamy, 
for what they scarcely believe to be the cause of their God. or 
kkw king, are, as Mark Anthony says, in Shakspeare, of Brutus 



TUii ORIGINAL OF Tin: COTTKIt's SATl'UDAY NIOnT. 31 

and Cassius, liononrahlc men. I ineiitioii this circumstance, 
Dccjtuse it tlircw my fatlior on the world at largo." 

This paragraph ha.s been omitted in pri\iting the letter, at 
the desire of Gilbert l^urns ; and it would have been unnecessary 
to have noticed it on the present occasion, had not several numU' 
script copies of that letter been in circulation. " I do not know," 
observed Gilbert Burns, " how my brother could be misled in 
the account he has given of the Jacobitism of his ancestors. I 
believe the Earl of Marischal forfeited his title and estate in 1715, 
before my lather was born ; and among a collection of parish 
certificates in his possession, I have read one stating that the 
bearer had no concern in the late wicked rebellion." On the 
information of one, who knew William Burnes soon after he 
arrived in the country of Ajt, it may be mentioned, that a 
report did prevail that he had taken the field with the young 
Chevalier — a report which the certificate mentioned by his sou 
was, perhaps, intended to counteract. Strangers ft'om the 
north, in the low country of Scotland, were ,n those days liable 
to suspicions of having been, in the familiar phrase of the coun- 
try, " Out in the forty-five" (1745), especially when they had 
' any stateliness or reserve about tliem, as was the case with 
Wilham Burnes. It may easily be conceived, that our poet 
would cherish the belief of his father's having been engag(^d in 
the daring enterprise of Prince Charles Edward. The generous 
attachment, the heroic valour, and the final misfortunes of the 
adherents of the house of Stuart, touched with sympathy his 
youthful and ardent mind, and influenced his original political 
opinions. 

The father of our poet is described, by one who knew him 
towards the latter end of his life, as above the common stature, 
thin and bent with labour. His countenance was serious 
and expressive, and the scanty locks on his head were grey. 
He was of a religious turn of mind, and, as is usual among the 
Scottish peasantry, a good deal conversant in speculative theo- 
logj'. There is, in Gilbert's hands, a little manual of religious 
belief, in the form of a dialogue between a father and his son, 
composed by him for the use of his children, in which thf 
benevolence of his heart seems to have led him to soften the 
rigid Calvinism of the Scotch church, into something approach- 
ing to Arminianism. He was a devout man, and in the practice 
of calling his family together to join in prayer. It is known 
that the following exquisite picture, in the Cotter's Saturday 
Night, represents William Burnes and his family at theii 
evening devotions : — 

" The cheerful supper done, with serious face, 

They round the ingle, form a circle wide ; 
The sire turns o'er with patriarchal grace, 

The big Jiall-hihle, once his father's pride : 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 

His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare ; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glid^ 



LIFE OJ? BUKNS, 

He wales a portion with judicious care ; 
And * Let us worship God ! " he says with solemn air. 

They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : 

Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measm-es rise. 
Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name ; 

Or noble JEIgin beets the heavenly llame, 
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays ; 

Compar'd \vith these Italian trills are tame, 
The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise ; 

No unison have they with oi\r Creator's praise. 
The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 

How Abraham was the friend of God on high : 
Or Moses bade eternal welfare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie, 

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ; 
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 

Or rapt Isaiah wild seraphic fire ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 

How he who bore in heaven the second name, 
Had not on earth whereon to lay his head, 

How his first followers and servants sped ; 
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land ; 

How he, who lone in Patmos banished, 
.Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand. 

And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by Hea- 
ven's command ! 
Then kneehng down to heaven's eternal King, 

The saint, the father, and the husband prays ; 
* Hope springs exulting on triumphant wing,' 

That thus they all shall meet in future days ; 
There ever bask in uncreated rays. 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, 
Together hymning their Creator's praise, 

In such society, j^et still more dear ; 
While cu'cling time liiQyes round in an eternal sphere. 

* * * * * * • 

Then homeward all take off their several way ; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest ; 
The parent pair their secret homage pay, 



THE OEIGINAL OP THE COTTEe's SATUBDAT NIGHT. 33 

Aiid ofTci- up to Heaven the warm request : 
Tliat He who stills the raven's clam 'rous nest, 

And decks the lily lair in Hovvery pride, 
Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, 
For them and for their little ones provide ; 
But, chiell}', in their hearts with grace divine preside!" 

Of a family so interesting as that which inhabited the cottage 
of William Bnrnes, and particularly of the father of the family, 
the reader will perhaps be willing to listen to some farther 
account. What follows is given by one already mentioned with 
BO much honour in the narrative of Gilbert Bm-ns, Mr. Murdoch, 
the preceptor of our poet, who^ in a letter to Joseph Cooper 
Walker, Esq., of Dublin, author of the Historical Memoirs of 
the Irish Bards, and of the Historical Memoir of the Italian 
Tragedy, thus expresses himself : — 

" SiE. — I was lately favom-ed with a letter from our worthy 
friend, the Rev. Wm. Adair, in which he requested me to com- 
mimicatc to you whatever particulars I could recollect concerning 
Robert Burns, the Ayrshire poet. My business being at present 
multifarious and harassing, my attention is consequently so 
much divided, and I am so little in the habit of expressing my 
thoughts on paper, that at this distance of time I can give but 
a very imperfect sketch of the early part of the life of that 
extraordinary genius, with which alone I am acquainted. 

William Burnes, the Mher of the poet, was born in the shire 
of Kincardine, and bred agardener. He had been settled in 
Ayrshire ten or twelve years before I knew him, and had been 
in the service of Mr. Crawford of Doonside. He was afterwards 
^mploj'ed as a gardener and overseer by Provost Ferguson of 
Doonholm, in the parish of AUowaj^, which is now united with 
that of A}T. In this parish, on the roadside, a Scotch mile and 
a half fi-om the town of Ayr, and half a mile from the bridge 
of Doon, William Burnes took a piece of land consisting of 
about seven acres ; part of which he laid out in garden ground, 
and part of which he kept to graze a cow, &c., still continuing 
in the employ of Provost Ferguson. Upon this little farm w'as 
erected a humble dwelHng, of which William Burnes was the 
architect. It was, with the exception of a little straw, literally 
a tabernacle of claj^ In this mean cottage, of which I myself 
was at times an inhabitant, I really believe there dwelt a larger 
portion of content than in any palace in Europe. The Cotter's 
Saturday Night will give some idea of the teiiiper and manneri 
that prevailed there." 

" In 1765, about the middle of March, Mr. W. Burnes came 
to Ayr, and sent to the school where I was improving in writing 
under my good friend Mr. Robinson, desiring that I would come 
and speak to him at a certain inn, and bring my \vriting book 
with me. This wan immediately complied with. Havmg 
examined mj'^ writing, he was plea.sed with it — you wiU readily 
allow he was not difficidt — and told me that he had received very 
satisfactory information of IMr. Tennant, the master of the 



34 LIFE OF BUKNS. 

Eiig-lisli school, concerning my improvement in English, and in 
his method of teaching. In the month of May following, I was 
(iugaged by Mr. Bm'nes, and four of his neighbours, to teach, 
anc^^ accordingly began to teach the school at Alloway, which was 
situatedafew yards from the argillaceous fabric above-mentioned. 
My live employers undertook to board me by turns, and to 
make up a certain salary at the end of the year, provided my 
quarterly payments from the different pupils did not amount to 
that sum." 

" My pupil, Robert Burns, was then between six and seven 
years of age, his preceptor about eighteen — Robert and his 
younger brother Gilbert had been grounded a little in English 
before they were put under my care. They both made a rapid 
progress in reading, and a tolerable progress in writing. In 
reading, dividing words into syllables by rule, spelling without 
book, parsing sentence, &c., Robert and Gilbert were generally 
at the upper end of the class, even when ranged with boys by 
far their seniors. The books most commonly used in the school 
were the SpelUng-book, the New Testament, the Bible, Mason's 
Collection of Prose and Verse, and Fisher's English Grammar. 
They committed to memory the hymns and other poems of that 
collection with uncommon facihty. This facility was partly 
owing to the method pursued by their father and me in instruct- 
ing them, which was, to make them thoroughly acquainted with 
the meaning of every word in each sentence that was committed 
to memory. By the bye, this may be easier done, and at an 
earher period, than is generally thought. As soon as they were 
capable of it, I tau.ght them to turn verse into its natural prose 
order J sometimes to substitute synonymous expressions for poe- 
tical words, and to supply all the ellipses. These you know are 
the means of knowing that the pupil understands his author. 
These are excellent helps to the arrangement of words in sen- 
tences, as well as to a variety of expression." 

" Gilbert always appeared to me to possess a more lively ima- 
gination, and to be more of the wit, than Robert. I attempted 
to teach them a little ch^rch-m\isic. Here they were left far 
behind by all the rest of the school. Robert's ear, in particular, 
was remarkably dull, and his voice untunable. It was long 
before I could get them to distinguish one tune ft-om another. 
Robert's comitenance was generally grave, and expressive of a 
serious, contemplative, and thoughtful mind. Gilbert's face 
said, Mirth, with thee I mean to live ! and certainly, if any 
person who knew the two boys had been asked which of them 
was most hkely to court the Muses, he would surely never have 
guessed that Robert had a propensity of that kind." 

" In the j^ear 1767, Mr. Burns quitted his mud edifice, and 
took possession of a farm (Mount OUphant,) of his own improv- 
ing, while in the service of Provost Ferguson. This farm being 
at a considerable distance from the school, the boys could not 
attend regularlv ; and some changes taking place anaong the 
other supporters of the school, I left it, having continued to 
conduct it for nearly two years and a half." 

" In the year 1772, I was appointed (being one of the fiv<» 



BURNS STUDIES TUbSCTI. 



3S 



aandidiitos n\\o were examined,) to teach the English school at 
Ayr; and, in 1773, Robert Burns came to bo:n-d andlod^'c with 
tiie, fur tho jMiriiose ol' reviiing English gruinniar, &c., tlu-ir he 
might hv. iicttor qualified to instruct Lis brothers and si.stcrs at 
home. Ho was now with me day and night, in school, at all 
mfals, and in all my walks. At the end of one week I told him 
that, as he was now pretty much master of tlic parts of speech 
&:c., I should like to teach him something of French pi'onuncia- 
tion ; that wh'^n he should meet with the name of a French 
town, ship otHcer, or the like, in the newspapers, ho might be 
able to proj)ounce it something like a French word. Kobert 
. was glad to hear this proposal, and immediately we attacked the 
Fi'cnch with good cournge." 

" Now there was little else to be heard but the declension of 
noim.s, the conjugation of verbs, &c. When walking together, 
and even at meals, I was constantly telhng him the names of 
different objects, as they presented themselves, in French ; so 
that he was hourly lajdng in a stock of word>5, and sometimes 
little phrases. In short, he took such pleasure in learning, and 
I in teaching, that it is difficult to say which of the tw'o was 
most zealous in the business ; and about the end of the second 
week of our study of the French, we began to read a little of 
the Adventures of Telemachus, in Fenelon's own words." 

" But now the plains of Moimt Oliphaut began to whiten, and 
Robert was summoned to rehnquish the pleasing scenes tliat 
surround the grotto ofCalyi)so, and, armed with a sickle, to seek 
glory by signahsing himself in the field of Ceres— and so he did; 
for although but about fifteen, I was told he performed the work 
of a man." 

" Thus was I deprived of my very apt pupil, and consequently 
agreeable companion, at the end of three weeks, one of which was 
spent entirely in the study of Enghsh, and the other two chicliy 
in that of Freiich . I did not, however, lose sight of him, but was 
a frequent visitant at his father's house, when I had my half 
hoHday; and very often went, accompanied with one or two per- 
'sons more intelligent than myself, that good William Burnes 
might enjoy a mental feast. Then the labouring oar was shifted 
to some other hand. The father and the son sat down with us, 
\yhen we enjoyed a conversation, wherein solid reasoning, sen- 
sible remark, and a moderate seasoning of jocularity, were i?o 
nicely blended, as to render it palatable to all parties. Robert 
had a hundred questions to ask me about the French, &c. ; and 
the father, who had always rational information in \iew, had 
still some questions to propose to my more learned friends, upon 
moral or natm-al philosophy, or some such interesting subject. 
Mrs. Burnes, too, was of the party as much as possible ; 
' But still the house affairs would draw her thence, 
Which ever as she could with haste dispatch, 
She'd come again, and with a greedy ear, 
Devour up their discourse' — ■ 

mid particularly that of her husband. At all times, and in all 
companies, she listened to him with a more marked attention 



00 LIFE OF BUENS. 

thaB to anybody f Ise. 'V^nien under the n ecessity of boinpj absent 
while he was speaking, she seemed to regret, as a real loss, that, 
ehe had missed what the good man had said. This worthy 
woman, Agiies Brown, had the most thorough esteem for her 
husband of any woman I ever knew. I can by no means wonder 
that she higlily esteemed him ; for I mj-self have always consi- 
dered William Ihirnes as by far the best of the human race that 
ever I had the pleasure of being acquainted with — and many a 
worthy character I have known. I can cheerfully join with 
Robert in the last hne of his epitaph (borrowed from Goldsmith), 
' And even his faihngs lean'd to virtue's side.' 

"He w^as an excellent husband, if I may judge from his 
assiduous attention to the ease and comfort of his worthy partner, 
and from her atfectionate behaviour to him, as well as her 
unwearied attention to the duties of a mother." 

•He was a tender and aflectionate father; he took great 
pleasm-e in leading his children in the path of virtue, not in 
driving them, as some parents do, to the perlbrmance of duties 
to which they themselves are averse. He took care to find fault 
but very seldom ; and, therefore, when he did rebuke, he was 
hstened to with a kind of reverential awe. A look of disappro- 
bation was felt ; a reproof was severely so ; and a strip witli the 
taivz, even on the skirt of the coat, gave heart-felt pain, produced 
a loud lamentation, and brought forth a Hood of tears ." 

" He had the art of gaining the esteem and goodwill of those 
that were labourers under him. I think I never saw him angry 
but twice; the one time it was with the ibreman of the band, 
for not reaping the field as he was desired; and the otlier time, 
it was with an old man, for using smutty inuendocs and double 
entefidres. Were every foul-iuouthed old man to receive a rea- 
sonable check in this way, it would be to the advantage of the 
rising generation. As he was at no time overbearing to inferiors, 
he was equally incapable of that passive, pitiJul, paltry spirit, 
that induces some people to keep booing and booing in the pre- 
sence oi a great man. He always treated superiors with a 
becoming respect; but he never gave the smallest encourage- 
ment to aristocratical arrogance. But I must not pretend to 
give you a description of all the manly quahties, the rational 
and Clu-istiau virtues, of the venerable William Burnes. Time 
would fail me. I shall only add that he carefully practised every 
known duty, and avoided everything that was criminal ; or, in 
the apostle's v>-ords. Herein did he exercise himself, in living a 
life void if offence toioards God and toivards men. Oh, for a 
world of men of such dispositions ! We shoiUd then have no 
wars. -1 have often wished, for the good of mankind, that it 
were as customary to honour and perpetuate the memory of 
those who excel in moral rectitude, as it is to extol what are 
dalled heroic actions; then would the mausoleum of the friend ol 
my youth overtop and surpass most of the monuments I see m 
W«stmi)-igter Abbey." 

'' Although I cannot do justice to the character of this worthy 
«oan, yed^ jou will perceive, from these few particulars, wliat 



BUKKS STUniRS I'KKNCH, 37 

Kindcf person had the principal hand in the education of out 
p "t. He spoke the Knghsh hxnguage with move propriety 
(l)0tl; with respect to diction and pronunciation) than any man 
I (Hcr know with no sjrcator advantages. This had a vciy t^ood 
eftecton the l)oys, who l)e^•an to ttrik, aiidrcasou h'ko ui!'n,imich 
sooner than their neighliours. I do not recollect any of tlioir 
contemporaries, at my little seminary, who afterwards made any 
great degree as hterary characters, except Dr. Tennant, wh(, 
was chaplain to Colonel Fullarton's i-egiment, and who is now 
in the East Indies. He is a man of genius and learning ; yet 
artahle, and free from pedantry." 

•' I\lr. Buriii's, in a short time, found that he had overratec 
IMouut Olipliiuit, aiid that he could not rear his numerous 
family npon it. After heing there some years, he removed to 
Lochlea, in the paj-ish of Tarholton, where, I helieve, Robert 
wrote most of his poems." 

" But here, sir, you will permit me to pause. I can tell you 
little more re^'.tive to our poet. 1 shall, however, in my next, 
send j'ou a copy of one of his letters to me, about tlie year 1783. 
I received one since, but it is mislaid. Please to remember me 
in the best manner to my worthy friend, Mr. Adair, when you 
see him, or write to him." 

" Haj't Street, Bloomshnnj Square, 
London, Feb. 22, 1799." 

As the narrative of Gilbert Burns was written at a time when 
he was ignorant of the existence of the preceding nan-ative ol 
his brother, so this letter of Mr. Murdoch was written without 
his having any knowledge that either of his pupils had been 
employed on the same subject. The three relations serve, 
therefore,^ not merely to illustrate, but to authenticate, eacli 
other. Though the information they convey might have been 
presented within a shorter compass, by reducing the whole into 
one unbroken narrative, it is scarcely to be doubted, that the 
intelligent reader will be far more gratified by a sight o^ 
these original documents tliemselves. 

[The poet mentions in his own narrative his visit in his 
nineteenth summer to Kirkoswald parish, and his mingling in 
scenes of _dissii>ation there amongst the Carrick smugglers. 
'rii(> following additional particulars, respecting this period of 
bis hfe will probably be interesting : they were collected by the 
present editor, but appeared originally in Chambers' JSdinburgh 
JonniaJ.] 

If Burns b:; correct in stating that it was his nineteenth 
summer that he suent in Kirkoswald parish, the date of his 
residence there must be 1777. What seems to have suggested 
liis going to Kirkoswald school, was the connection of his mother 
with that parish. She was the daughter of Gilbert Brown, 
fanner, of Craigenton, in this parochial division of Camck, in 
N\hich she had many friends still living, particularly a brother, 
Samuel Brown, who resided, in the miscellaneous capacity 
of fai-ra-labourer, fisherman, and dealer in wool, at the farm- 



88 LIFE OF BUENS. 

house of Ballochneil, above a mile from the village of Kirkos- 
wald. This Brown, though not the farmer or guidman of tho 
place, was a person held to be in creditable circumstances in a 
district where the distinction between master and servant was, 
and still is, by no means great. His wife was the sister of 
Niven, the tenant, and he lived in the " chamber " or better 
portion of the farm-house, but was nov/ a widower. It was 
with Brown that Burns lived during his attendance it Kir- 
koswald school, walking every morning to the village, where the 
little seminary of learning was situated, and returning at night. 

Tlie district into which the young poet of Kyle was thus 
thrown, has many features of a remarkable kind. Though 
situated on the shore of the Firth of Clyde, where steamers arc 
every hour to be seen on their passage between enlightened and 
busy cities, it is to this day the seat of simple and patriarchal 
usages. Its land composed of bleak green uplands, partly culti- 
vated and partly pastoral, was, at the time alluded to, occupied 
by a generation of primitive small farmers, m.any of whom, 
while preserving their native simplicity, had superadded to it 
some of the irregidar habits arising from a concern in the trade 
of introducing contraband goods on the Carrick coast. Such 
dealings did not prevent superstition from flourishing amongst 
them in a degree of vigour of which no district of Scotland now 
presents any example. The parish has six miles of sea coast ; 
and the village where the church and school are situated, is in a 
sheltered situation about a couple of miles inland. 

The parish schoolmaster, Hugh Rodger, enjoyed great local 
fame as a teacher of mensuration and geometry, and was much 
employed as a practical land survej'or. On the day when Burns 
ent-ered at the school, another youth, a little younger than him- 
self, also entered. This was a native of the neighbouring town 
of Maybole, who having there completed a course of classical 
study, was now sent by his father, a respectable shopkeeper, to 
acquire arithmetic and mensuration under the famed mathema- 
tician of Kirkoswald. It was then the custom, when pupils of 
their age entered at a school, to take the master to a tavern, and 
complete the engagement by treating him to some liquor 
Burns and the Maybole youth accordingl}' united to regale 
Rodger with a jjotation of ale, at a public-house in the village, 
kept by two gentlewomanly sort of persons named Kennedy — 
Jean and Anne Kennedy — the former of whom was destined to 
be afterwards married to immortal verse, under the appellation 
of Kirton Jean, and whose house, in consideration ot some pre- 
tensions to birth or style above the common, was always called 
" the I^eddics' House. " From that time, Burns and the 
Maybole youth became intimate friends, insomuch, that dunng 
this summer, neither had any companion with whom he was 
more frequently in companj"- tlian with the other. Burns w as 
only at tiie village during school hours; but when his friend 
Willie returned to the paternal dome on Saturday nights, the 
poet would accompany him, and stay till it was time for both 
to come back to school on ]\Ionday morning. T'lere was also an 
interval between the morning and afternoon meetings of the 



nUGn ROGEK, TITE SCHOOLMASTER. 3* 

whool, which the two j'outlis used to spoiul together. Instead 
of airnsiiii; thomselves with hall or any other sport, like the rest 
of the scholars, thoy would take a walk hy themselves in the 
outsk-irts of the village, and converse on subjects calculated to 
improve their minds. I>y and bye, they fell upon a plan oi 
holding disi)utations or arguments on spcciilalive questions, ono 
taking oire side, and one the other, without much regard to their 
respective opinions on the point, whatever it might be, the 
whole object being to sharpen their intellects, 'fhcy asked 
Keveral of their companions to come and take a side in these 
debates, hut not one would do so; they only laughed at the 
young philosophers. The matter at length reached the ears of 
the master, wlio, however skilled in mathematics, possessed but 
a naiTow understanding and little general kjiowledge. With 
all the bigotry of the old school, he conceived that this superero- 
gator}' employment of his pupils was a piece of absurdity, and 
lie resolved to correct thoni in it. One day, therefore, when the 
school was fully met, and in the midst of its usual business, he 
went up to the desk where IJurns and Willie where sitting 
opposite to each other, and began to advert in sarcastic terms to 
what he had heard of them. They had become great debaters, 
he understood, and conceived themselves tit to settle affairs of 
importance, which wiser heads xisuallj- let alone. He hoped 
their disputations would not ultimatel}^ become quairels, and 
that thcj' would never think of coming from words to blows ; 
and so forth. The jokes of schoolmasters always succeed among 
the bo3-s, who are too glad to find the awful man in anything 
like good-humour, to question either the moral aim or point of 
his wit. They, therefore, on this occasion, hailed the master's 
remarks with hearty peals of laughter. Nettled at this, Willie 
resolved he would " speak up " to Rodger ; hut first he asked 
Burns in a whisper if he would support him, which Burns pro- 
mised to do. He then said that he was sorry to find that Robert 
and he had given offence ; it had not been intended. And indeed 
he had expected that the master would have been rather pleased 
to know of their endeavours to improve their minds. He could 
assure him that such improvement was the sole object they had in 
view. Rodger sneered at the idea of their improving their minds 
hy nonsensical discussions, and contemptuously asked what it was 
they disputed about. Willie replied, that generally there was 
a new subject everyday ; that he could not recollect all that had 
come under their attention ; but the question of to-day had beeu — 
" Whether is a great general or a respectable merchant the most 
valuable member of society ? " The dominie laughed outrage- 
ously at what he called the silliness of such a question, seeing 
there could he no doubt for a moment about it. " Well," said 
Burns, " if you think so, I will be glad if you take any side you 
please, and allow me to take the other, and let us discuss it 
before the school." Rodger most unwisely assented, and com- 
menced the argument hy a flourish in favour of the general. 
Burns answered by a pointed advocacy of the pretensions of the 
merchant, and soon had an evident superiority over his preceptcr. 
The latter replied, but without success. His hand s'/as observ«J 



40 LIFE OP •Bvmas. 

to shake ; then his poice trembled ; and he dissolved the house 
in a state of vexation pitiable to behold. In this anecdote who 
can fail to read a prognostication of future eminence to the two 
disputants ? The one became the most illustnous poet of his 
country ; and it is not unworthy of being mentioned in the same 
sent-ence, that the other advanced, through a career of successful 
industry in his native town, to the possession of a large-estate in 
its neghbourhood, and some share of the honours usually 
reserved in this country for birth and aristocratic connection. 

The coast in the neighbourhood of Burns's residence at Bal- 
lochniel presented a range of rustic characters upon whom his 
genius was destined to confer an extraordinary interest. At the 
farm of Shanter, on a slope overlooking the shore, not far from 
Tumberry castle, hved Douglas Graham, a stout hearty speci- 
men of the Carrick farmer, a Httle addicted to smuggling, but 
withal a worthy and upright member of society, and a kind-na- 
tured man. He had a wife named Helen M'Taggart, who was 
addicted to superstitious beliefs and fears. The steading where 
this good couple lived is now no more, for the farm has been 
divided for the increase of two others in its neghbourhood ; but 
genius has given them a perennial existence in the tale of Tam 
o'Shanter, where th-eir characters are exactly delineated under 
the respective api)eiJiations of Tam and Kate. * * * 

At Ballochmei Bvrns engaged heartily in the sports of leap- 
ing, dancing, wrestling, putting (throwing) the stone, and others 
of the Uke kind. His innate tliirst for distinction and superi- 
ority was manifested in these as in more important affairs ; but 
though he was possessed of great strength, as well as skill, he 
never could match his young bed-fellow, John Niven. Obliged 
at last to acknowledge himself beat by this person in bodUy war- 
fare, he had recourse for amends to a spiritual mode of conten- 
tion, and would engage young Niven in argument upon some 
speculative question, when, of course, he invariably floored his 
antagonist. His satisfaction on these occasions is said to have 
been extreme. One day, as he was walking slowly along tlie 
Btrefit of the village in a manner customary to him, with his 
eyes bent on the ground, he was met by the Misses Biggar, the 
daughters of the parish pastor. He would have passed without 
noticing them, if one of the young ladies had not called him by 
his name. She then rallied him on his inattention to the fair 
sex, in preferring to look towards the inanimate ground, instead 
of seizing the opportunity afforded him of indulging in the most 
valuable privilege of man, that of beholding and conversing with 
the ladies. " Madam," said he, " it is a natural and right thing 
lor a man to contemplate the ground, n-om whence he wrs taken, 
and fof woman to look upon and observe man, from whom she 
was taken." Tliis was a conceit, but it was the conceit of no 
vulgar boy." 

There is a great fair at Kirkoswald in the beginning of August, 
on the same daj-, we believe, with a hke fair at Kirkoswald in 
iSTorthumberlan.i, bptli ])lacas having taken their rise from the 
pietyof onBperb»ri,Oswald, a Saxon king of the Heptarchy, whose 
oaemory is probably honoured in these observances. During the 



BUKKS IX LOVB WITH PEGOT THOMPSON. 41 

week preceding tins fair, in tlie year 1777, Bums made over- 
tures to his Mu} bole friend, Willie, for their gerting up a dance, 
on the ■evening of the approaching festival, in one of the public- 
houses of the village, and inviting their sweethearts to it. Willie 
knew little at that time of dances or sweethearts ; but he liked 
liuriis, and was no enemy to amu.>=emcnt. lie therefore consented, 
and it was {urrecd that some other young men should be requested 
to join in the undi-rtaking. Tlie dance took place as designed, 
the requisite music being supplied by a hired band, and about a 
dozen couples partook of the fun. When it was proposed to 
part, the reckoning was c;dled and found to amount to eighteen 
shillings and fourpence. It was then discovered that almost 
every one present had looked to his neighbours for the means ot 
settling this claim. Uurns, the originator of the scheme, was 
in the poeticixl condition of not being master of a single penny. 
The rest were in a like condition, all except one, whose resources 
amounted to a groat, and Maybolc Willie, who possessed about 
half-a-crown. The last individual, who alone boasted any 
worldly wisdom or experience, took it upon him to extricate the 
company I'roni its difficulties. By virtue of a candid and sen-si- 
ble narration to th(3 landlord, he induced that individual to take 
what they had and give credit for the remainder. The pajmient 
of the debt is not the worst part of the story. Seeing no chance 
from begging or borrowing, Willie resolved to gain it, if possible, 
by merchandise. Observing that stationery articles fur the 
school were procured at Kirkoswald with difficulty, he su[iplied 
himself with a stock h-oui his father's warehouse at Maypole, 
and for some weeks sold pens and paper to his companions with 
so much advantage, that at length he realised a sufficient amount 
of profit to liquidate the expense of the dance. Burns and he 
then went in triumph to the iim, and not only settled the claim 
to the last penny, but gave the kind-hearted host a bowl of 
thanks into the bargain. Willie, however, took care horn that 
time forth to engage in no schemes for country dances without 
looking carefully to the probable state of the pockets of his fellow 
adventurers. 

Burns, according to his own account, concluded his residence 
at Kirkoswald in a blaze of passion for a Mr Jilette who lived 
next door to the school. At this time, owing to the destruction 
of the proper school of Kirkoswald, a chamber at the end of the 
old church, the business of parochial instruction was (inducted 
in an apartment on the ground tloor of a house in the main 
street of the viUage, opposite the churchj'ard. From behind the 
house, as from behind each of its neighbours in the same row. 
a small strip of kail-yard {Anglice, kichen-gardcn) runs bitcK 
about fifty yards, along a rapidly-ascending slope. Wten Burns 
went into the particular patch behind the school to take the sun's 
altitude, he hud only to look over a low enclosure to see the simi- 
lar patch connected with the next house. Here, it seems, Peggy 
Thompson, the daughter of the rustic occupant of that house, 
was walking at the time, though more probably engaged in the 
business of cutting a cabbage for the family dinner, than imitat- 
UQg the flower-gathering Proserpine, or her prototype Eve. Hence 

e3 



*'^ LIPE OF BUKKS. 

the bewildering passion of the poet. Peggy was the theme of 

his " Song composed in August," beginning — 

" Now westlin winds and slauglitering guns 
Bring Autumn's pleasant weather." 

She afterwards became Mrs. Neilson, and lived to a good age iQ 
the town of Ayr, where her children still reside. 

At his departure from Kirkoswald, he engaged his Maybole 
friend and some other lads to keep up a correspondence with him. 
His object iu doing so, as we may gather fi-om his own narrative, 
was to improve himself in composition. " I carried this whim 
so fai-," says he, " that, though 1 had not three ferthings' worth 
of business in the world, yet almost every post brought me as 
many letters as if I had been a broad ploduing son of day-book 
and ledger." To Willie, in particular, he wrote often, and in 
the most friendly and confidential terms. When that inthvidual 
was commencing bu-oiuess in his native town, the poet addressed 
bim a poetical epistle of appropriate advice, headed with the 
^■ell-kuown lines from Blair's Grave, beginning — 

" Friendship ! mj'sterious cement of the soul, 
• Sweetener of life and solder of society." 

This coiTcspondence continued till the period of the publication 
of the poems, when Burns wrote to request his fi-iend's good 
offices in increasing his list of subscribers. The young man was 
then possessed of little influence, but what little he had he 
exerted with all the zeal of friendship, and with considerable 
siiccess. A considerable number of copies was accordingly- 
transmitted in proper time to his care, and soon after the poet 
came to Maybole to receive the money. His friend collected a 
few choice spirits to meet him at the King's Arms Inn, and the> 
spent a hajjpy night together. IJurns was on this occasion par- 
ticularly plated, for Willie, in the midst of their convivialit}', 
handed over to liim seven pounds, being the first considerable 
sum of money the poor bard had ever possessed. In the pride 
of his heart, next morning, he determined that he should not 
walk home, and accordingly he hired fi-om his host a certain 
poor liack mare, well known along the whole road fi'om Glas- 
gow to Portpatrick — in all probabiUty the fii'st hired conveyance 
that Poet Burns had ever enjoyed, for even his subsequent jour- 
ney to Fxliuburgh, auspicious as were the prospects under which 
it was undertaken, was performed on foot. Wilhe and a few 
other youths who had been in his company on the preceding 
vjght, walked out of town before liim, for the pui'pose of taking 
leave at a particular spot ; and liefore he came up they had pre- 
-lired a few mock-heroic verses in which to express their 
'arewell. When Burns rode up, accordingly, they saluted him 
i^ this formal manner, a little to his surprise. He thanked 
them, however, and instantly added, " What need of aU thia 
fine parade .-f verse ? It v ould have been quite enough if yog 
).ad said — 



BUKN8 TAKIXO L13A.VE OF UIS COMPANIOKS, 4-i 

Here comes Uurns, 

On llosiiiantcj 
She's d poor. 

But lie's d canty." 

The campauy then allowed Burns to go on his way rejoichig'. 

Under the humble roof of his parents it appears that our poet 
had proat advantages ; but his opportunities of information &t 
school were more limited as to time than they usually are among 
his countrymen in his condition of life ; and the acquisitions 
which he made, and the poetical talent which he exerted, under 
the pressure of early and incessant toil, and of inferior and per- 
haps scanty nutriment, testify at once the extraordinary force 
and activity of his mind. In his frame of body he rose nearly to 
five feet ten inches, and assumed the proiwrtions that indicate 
agihty as well as strength. In the various labours of the farm 
he excelled all his competitors. Gilbert Burns declares, that 
in mowing, the exercise that ti'ies all the muscles most severely, 
Robert was the only man that, at the end of a summer's day, 
he was ever obliged to acknowledge as his master. But though 
our poet gave the powers of his body to the labours of the farm, 
he refused to bestow on them his thoughts or his care. While 
the ploughshare under his guidance passed through the sward, 
or the grass fell under the sweep of his scythe, he was humming 
the songs of his country, musing on the deeds of ancient valour, 
or wrapt in the illusion of fancy, as her enchantments rose on 
his view. Happily the Sunday is yet a sabbath, on which man 
and beast rest fi-oni their labours. On this day, therefore, Burns 
could indulge in a free intercourse with the cliarms of nature. 
It was his delight to wander alone on the banks of the A)T, 
whose stream is now immortal, and to listen to the song of the 
blackbird at the close of the summer's day. But stiU greater 
was his pleasure, as he himself informs us, in walking on the 
sheltered side of a wood, in a cloudy \vinter day, and hearing the 
storm rave among the trees ; and more elevated still his delight, 
to ascend some eminence during the agitatjions of nature ; to 
stride along its summit, while the lightning flashed around nim ; 
and amidst the bowlings of the tempest, to apostrophise the 
spirit of the storm. Such situations he declares most favourable 
to devotion: — " Bapt in enthusiasm, I seem to ascend towards 
Him who toalks on the toings of the toinds !" If other proofs 
were wanting of the character of his genius, this might deter- 
mine it. The heart of the poet is peculiarly awake to every 
impression of beauty and sublimity ; but with the higher order 
of poets the beautiful is less attractive than the sublime. 

The gaiety of many of Burns's writings, and the lively and 
even cheerful colouring with which he has portrayed his own 
character, may load some persons to suppose, that the melan- 
choly which hung over liim towards the end of his days wtus not 
an original part of his constitution. It is not to be doubted, 
indeed, that this melancholy acqiured a darker hue in the pro- 
gress of his life ; but, independent of his own and of his bro- 
ther's testimony, evidence is to be found among his papers, 



94 LIFE OF BUKNiS. 

that lie was subject very early to those depressions of mind, 
which are, perhaps, not wholly separalile fi-om the sensibility 
of genius, but which in him arose to an uncommon degi-ee. The 
following letter, addressed to his father, will serve as a proof of 
this observation. It was written at the time when he waa 
learning the business of a flax-dresser, and is dated — 

Irvine, Bee. 27, 1781. 
*•' HoNOTJREfl Sir. — 1 have purposely dela5'-ed writing, in 
the hope that 1 should have the pleasure of seeing j'ou on New- 
year's day ; but work comes so hard upon us, that I do not 
ihoose to be absent on that account, as well as for some other 
little reasons which I shall tell tell you at meeting. My health 
is nearly the same as when j-ou \vere here, onl}' my sleep is a 
little sounder; and on the whole I am rather better than other- 
wise, though I mend by very slow degrees. The weakness of 
my nerves has so debilitated my mind, that I dare neither 
review past events, nor look forward into futurity ; for the least 
anxiety or perturbation in my breast produces most unliappy 
effects on my whole frame. Sometimes, mdeed, when for an 
hour or two my spirits are a little lightened, I glimmer a little 
into futurity ; but my principal, and indeed my only pleasurable 
employment, is looking backwards and forwards in a moral and 
religious waj\ I am quite transported at the thought, that ere 
long, very soon, I shall bid an eternal adieu t© all the pains 
and uneasinesses, and disquietudes of this wearj'^ life, for I 
assure you I am heartily tired of it ; and if I do not very much 
deceive myself, I covdd contentedly and gladly resign it. 

* The soul, uneasy and confined at home, 
Rests and expatiates in a Ufe to come.' 

" It is for this reason I am more pleased with the 15th, 16th, 
and 17th verses of the 7th chapter of Revelations, than with any 
ten times as many verses in the whole }3ible, and would not 
exchange the noble enthusiasm with which they inspire me, for 
all that this world has to offer. As for this world, I despair of 
ever making a figure in it. I am not formed for the bustle of 
the busy, nor the flutter of the gay. I shall never again be capa- 
ble of entering into such scenes. Indeed, I am altogether uncon- 
cerned at the thoughts of this life. I forsee that poverty and ob- 
scurity probably await me : I am in some measure prepared, and 
daily preparing, to meet them. I have but just time and paper 
to return you my grateful thanks for the lessons of virtue and 
piety you have given me, which were too much neglected at the 
time of giving them, but which, I hope, have been remembered 
ere it is yet too late. Present my dutiful respects to my mother, 
and my compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Muir ; and with wishing 
you a merry New-year's day, I shall conclude. 

I am, honourefl sir, your dutiftil son, 

Robert Burns. 

^ " P. S. — My meal is nearly out ; but I am going to borrow 
till I get more." 



BUKNS'S DEBATING CI.UB. 45 

This letter, written sevenJ yeiirs before the publication of his 
poems, when his name was as obscure as bis condition wtia 
bumble, displays the pbilcsopbic melancholy which so generally 
forms the poetical temperament, and that buoj'ant and ambitious 
spirit, which indicates a mind conscious of its strength. At 
Irvine, JJurns at this time possessed a single room for his lodg- 
ing, and rented perhaps at the rate of a shilling a week, lie 
passed his days in constant labour as a fiax-dresser, and his food 
consisted chieliy of oatmeal, sent to him from his father's 
tamil^'. The store of this humble though wholesome nutriment 
it appears, was nearly exhausted, and he was about to borrow 
till he should obtain a supply. Yet even in this situation his 
active imagination had formed to itself pictures of eminence and 
distinction. His despair of making a figure in the world shews 
how ardently he wished for honourable fame ; and his contempt 
of life, founded on this despair, is the genuine expression of a 
youthful and generous luind. In such a state of reflection and of 
suft'ering, the imagination of Burns naturally passed the dark 
boundaries of our earthly horizon, and rested on those beautiful 
representations of a better world, where there is neither thirst, 
nor hunger, nor sorrow ; and where happiness shall be in pro- 
portion to the capacitj^ of happiness. 

Such a disposition is far from being at variance with social 
enjoyments. Those who have studied the affinities of mind 
know that a melancholy of this description, after a while seeks 
rehef in the endearments of society, and that it has no distant 
coimection with the flow of cheerfulness, or even the extravagance 
of mirth. It was a few days after the writing of this letter that 
our poet, " in giving a welcome carousal to the new year with 
his gay companions," suffered his flax to catch fire, and his 
shop to be consumed to ashes. 

The energy of Burns's mind was not exhausted by his daily 
labours, the efflisions of his muse, his social pleasures, or his 
solitarj' meditations. Some time previous to his engagement as 
a flax-dresser, having heard that a debating club had been estab- 
lished in Ayr, he resolved to try how such a meeting would 
succeed in the village of Tarbolton. About the end of the year 
1780, our poet, his brother, and five other young peasants of 
the nighboiu'hood, formed themselves into a society of this sort, 
thh declared objects of which were to relax themselves after toil, 
promote sociality and friendship, and improve the mind. The 
laws and regulations were furnished by I3urns. The members 
were to meet after che laboiu's of the day were over, once a week, 
in a small public-house in the village, where each should offer 
his opinion on a given question or subject, supporting it by such 
arguments as he thought proper. The debate w-as to be con- 
duoted \nth order and deconim ; and after it was finished, tli« 
members were to choose a suliject for discussion at the ensuing 
meeting. The sum expended by each was iiot to exceed three- 
pence ; and, with the humble potation that this could procure, 
they were to toast their mistrssses, and to cultivate friendship 
with each other. This society continued its meetings regularly 
for sometime , and in the Autumn of 1782, wishing to preserva 



46 LIFE OP BTTKNS. 

some account of their proceedings, they purchased a book, into 
which their laws and regulations were copied, with a preamble, 
containing a short history of their transactions down to that 
period. Tliis curious document, which is evidently the work of 
our poet, has been discovered, and it deserves a place in his 
memoirs. 

"HISTOKY of the EISE, PEOCEEDIIfGS, AND BBGUIjA.XI0If8 
OF THE bachelors' CLUB. 

* Of birth or blood we do not boast, 
Nor gentry does our club afford ; 

But ploughmen and mechanics we 
In Nature's simple dress record.' 

" As the great end of human society is to become wiser and 
better, this ought, therefore, to be the principal view of e« ery 
man in every station of life. But as experience has taught us, 
that such studies as inform the head and mend the heart, when 
long continued, are apt to exhaust the faculties of the mind, it 
has been found proper to relieve and unbend the mind by some 
employment or another, that may be agreeable enough to keep ' 
its powers in exercise, but at the same time not so serious as to 
exhaust them. But superadded to this, by far the greater part 
of mankind are under the necessity oj earning the sustenance 
of human life hy the labour of their bodies, wliereby, not only 
the facidties of mind, but the nerves and sinews of the bodj'-, 
are so fatigued, that it is absolutely necessary to have recourse 
to some amusement or diversion, to relieve the wearied man, 
worn down with the necessary labours of life. 

" As the best of things, however, have been perverted to the 
worst of purposes, so, under the pretence of amusement and 
diversion, men have plunged into all the madness of riot and 
dissipation ; and, instead of attending to the grand design ot 
human life, the}' have begun with extravagance and folly, and 
ended with guilt and wretchedness. Impressed witli these 
considerations, we, the following lads in the parish of Tarbolton, 
viz. Hugh Reid, Robert Burns, Gilbert Burns, Alexander Brown, 
Walter Mitchell, Thomas Wright, and William M' Gavin, 
resolved, for our mutual entertainment, to unite ourselves into a 
club, or society, under such rules and regulations, that while we 
should forget our cares and labours in mirth and diversion, we 
might not transgress the bounds of innocence and decorum ; and 
after agreeing on these, and some other regulations, we held our 
first meeting at Tarbolton, in the house of John Richard, upon 
the evening of the 11th November, 1780, commonly called 
Hallowe'en, and after choosing Robert Bm-ns president for the 
night, we proceeded to debate on this question : ' Suppose a 
yoimg man, bred a farmer, but without any fortune, has it in 
his power to marry either of two women, the one a girl of large 
fortui\e, but neither handsome in pei*son nor agreeable in con- 
veisation, but who can manage the household affairs of a farm 
well enough ; the other of them a girl every way agreeable in 
Derson, conversation, and behaviour, but without any fortune j 
vkich of them shall he choose ? Finding ourselves very happy 



BUENS'S DEBATING CLUB. 4r? 

in our society, we resolved to continue to meet once a month in 
the sanie house, in the way and manner proposed, and shortly 
thercai'tcr we chose Koberfc Kitchie for another member. In 
May, 1781, we brought in David Sillar, and in June, Adam 
Jamaison, as members. About the beginning of the year 1782, 
we admitted ijMatthow I'atterson and John Orr, and in Juna 
following we chose James I'atterson as a proper biX)ther for such 
a society. The club being thus increased, we resolved to meet 
at Tarbolton on tlie race night, the July followin.'-, and have a 
dance in honour of our society. Accovchngly, we did rueet, each 
one with a partner, and spent the eveniug in such innocence and 
merriment, such cheerfulness and good humour, that ^ every 
brother will long remember it with pleasure and delight." To 
this preamble are subjoined the rules and regulations. 

The philosophical mind will dwell with interest and pleasm-e 
on an institution that combined so skilfidly the means of instruc- 
tion and happiness ; and if grandeur looks down with a smile on 
these simple annals, let ns trust that it will be a smile of bene- 
volence and approbation. It is witli regret that the sequel ol 
the history of the Bachelors' Club of Tarbolton nmst be told. 
It survived several years after our poet removed from Ayrshire, 
but no longer sustained l)y his talents, or cemented by his social 
atlections, its meetings lost mudi of their attraction ; and at 
length, in an evil hour, dissension arising amongst its members, 
the institution was given up, and the records committed to the 
Hames. Happily, the preamble and the regulations were spared ; 
and as matter ofinstruction and of example, they are transnntted 
to posterity. 

Altei- the family of our bard removed from Tarbolton to the 
neighbourhood of JilauchUue, he and his brother were requested 
to assist in forming a similar institution there. The regulations 
oi the club at Mauchline were nearly the same as those of the 
club at Tarbolton ; but one laudal^lc alteration was made. The 
fines for non-attendance had at Tarbolton been spent in enlarg- 
ing their scanty potations: at Mauchhne it was fixed that the 
money so arising should be set apart for the purchase of books, 
and the first work procured in this manner was the ]\Iin-or, the 
separate numbers of which were at that time recently collected 
and published in volumes. After it followed a number of other 
works, chiefly of the same nature, and among these the Lounger. 
Tlic society of Mauchline still (1800) subsists, and appeared m 
the list of subscribers to the first edition of the works of its cele- 
brated associate. 

The members of these two societies were originally all young 
men from the country, and chiefly sons of farmers— a descrip- 
tion of persons, in the opinion of our poet, more agreeable in 
'their manners, more virtuous in their conduct, and more suscep 
tible ot improvement, than the self-suflicient mechanics of 
country towns. With deference to the Conversation Society of 
MauchhT,p,it may be doubted, whether the hooks which they 
purchase"! were of a kind best adapted to promote the interest 
and happiness of persons in this situation of life. The Mirroi 
&nd the Lounger, though works of great merit, may be said, on 



48 lilFH OF BUEN8. 

d general view of their coutpnts, to be less calculated to increaso 
the knowledge than to refine the taste oi'those who read them -, 
and to this last object their morality itself, which is, however, 
always perfectly pure, may be considered as subordinate- As 
works of taste, they deserve great praise. They are, indeed, 
refined to a high degree of delicacy ; and to this circumstance it 
is perhaps owing, that they exhibit little or nothing of the 
peculiar manners of the age or country in which they were pro- 
duced. 13ut delicacy of taste, though the source of many 
pleasures, is not without some disadvantages, and to render it 
desirable, the possessor should, perhaps, in all cases, be raised 
above the necessity of bodily labour, imless, indeed, we should 
include under this term the exercise of the imitative arts, over 
which taste immediately presides. Delicacy of taste may be a 
blessing to him who has the disposal of his own time, and who 
can choose what book he shall read, of what diversion he shall 
partake, and what company he shall keep. To men so situated, 
the cultivation of taste afibrds a grateful occupation in itself, 
and opens a path to many other gratifications. To men of 
genius, in the possession of opulence and leisure, the cultivation 
of the taste may be said to be essential : since it affords employ- 
ment to those faculties, which without emploJ^nent, would 
destroy the happiness of the possessor, and corrects that morbid 
sensibility, oi', to use the expressions of Mr. Hume, that delicacy 
of passion, wliich is the bane of the temperament of gejiius. 
Happy had it been for our bard, after ho emerged from the condi- 
tion of a peasant, had the dchcacy of his taste equalled the 
sensibiUty of his passions, regulating all the eflusions of his 
muse, and presiding over all his social enjoyments. But to the 
thousands who share the original condition of Burns, and who 
are doomed to pass their hves in the station in which they wore 
born, dehcac}' of taste, were it even of easy attainment, would, 
if not a positive evil, be at least a doubtful blessing. Delicacy 
of taste may make many necessary labours irksome or disgusting; 
and should it render the cultivator of the soil unhappy in his 
situation, it presents no means by which that situation may be 
imjjroved. Taste and literature, which diffuse so many charms 
throughout society, which sometimes secure to their votaries 
distinction while living, and which still more frequently obtain 
for them posthumous fame, seldom procure opulence, or even 
independence, when cultivated with the utmost attention, and 
can scarcely he pursued with advantage by the peasant in the 
short intervals of leisure which his occupations allow. Those 
who raise themselves from the condition of daily labour, are 
usually men who excel in the practice of some useful art, or 
who join habits of industry and sobriety to an acquaintance^ 
with some of the more common branches of knowledge. The' 
penmanship of Butterworth, and the arithmetic of Cocker, may 
be studied by men in the humblest walks of life ; and they will 
assist the peasant more in the pursuit of independence than the 
study of Homer or of Shakespeare, though he could co^npreheud 
and even imitate the beauties of those immortal bards. 
These observations a^e not offered without yome portion of 



THB PECULIAR* TASTES OF BUEIT8. 49 

doabt and hesitation. The subject has many relations, and 
would justity an ample discussion. It may be observed, on tlie 
other band, that the iirst stop to improvement is, to awaken tho 
desire of improvement, and that this wall be most eflcctually 
done by such reading as interests the heart and excites the ima- 
gination. The greater part of the sacred writings themselves, 
which in Scotland are more especially the manual of the p(X)r, 
a»me under this description. It may be further observed, that 
wer}' human being is the proper judge of his own happiness, 
iud, within the path of innocence, ought to be peniiitted to 
pursue it. Since it is the taste of the Scottish peasantry to givo 
a preference to works of taste and of fancy, it may be presumed 
they find a superior gratification in the perusal of such works ; 
and it may be added, that it is of more consequence they should 
be made happy in their original condition, tlian furnished with 
the means, or with the desire, of rising above it. Such con- 
siderations .are, doubtless, of much weight; nevertheless, the 
pre\'ious reflections may deserve to be examined, and here we 
shall leave the subject. 

Though the records of the society at Tarbolton are lost, and 
those of the society at Mauchline have not been transmitted, yet 
we may safely affirm, that our poet was a distinguished mem- 
ber of both these associations, which were well calculated to 
excite and to develope the powers of his mind. From seven to 
twelve persons constituted the society of Tarbolton, and such a 
number is best suited to the puri^oses of information. Wliero 
this is the object of these societies, the number should be such, 
that each person may have an opportunity of imparting his 
sentiments, as well as of receiving those of others ; and the 
powers of private conversation are to be employed, not those of 
pubhc debate. A limited society of this kind, where the subject 
of conversation is fixed beforehand, so that each member may 
revolve it previously in his mind, is perhaps one of the happiest 
contrivances hitherto discovered for shortening the acquisition 
of knowledge, and hastening the evolution of talents. Such an 
association requires, indeed, somewhat more of regulation than 
the rules of politeness, established in common conversation, or 
rather, perhaps, it requires that the rules of politeness, which in 
fltninft'-fd conversation are liable to perpetual violation, should 
be vigorously enforced. The order of speech established in the 
club at Tarbolton appears to have been more regular than was 
reqaired in so small a societj'; wliere all that is necessary seems 
to be the fixing on a member to whom every speaker shall address 
himself, and who shall in return secure the speaker from inter- 
ruption. Conversation, which among men whom intimacy and 
friendship have relieved from reserve and restraint, is liable, 
when left to itself, to so many inequahties, and whicli, as it 
become.s rapid, so often diverges into separate and collateral 
branches, in which it is dissipated and lost, being kept within its 
channel by a simple limitation of this kind, which practice ren- 
ders easy and famihar, ilovvs along in one full stream, and 
becomes smoother, and clearer, and deeper, as it flows. It may 
also be cbserved, that in this way the acquisition of knowledge 
F 4 



50 LIFE OP BUENS. 

becomes more pleasant and more easy, from the gradual iraprov©* 
ment of the faculty employed to convey it. Though some 
attention has been paid to the eloquence of the senate and the 
bar, which in this, as in all other fi'ee governments, is productive 
of so much influence to the few who excel in .it yet little regard 
has been paid to the humbler exercise of speeo'i in private con- 
versation — an art that is of consequence to every description 'J 
persons under every form of government, and on which eloqusncc 
of every kind ought perhaps to be founded. 

The first requisite of every kind of elocution, a distinct 
utterance, is the offspring of nmch time and of long practice. 
Children are always defective in clear articulation, and so are 
young people, though in a less degree. What is called slurring 
a speech, prevails with some persons through life, especially in 
those who are taciturn. Articulation does not seem to reach its 
utmost degree of distinctness in men before the age of twenty, 
or upwards ; in women it reaches this point somewhat earlier. 
Female occupations require much u>;e of speech, because their 
duties are in detail. Besides their occupations being generally 
sedentaiy, the respiration is left at liberty. Their nerves being 
more delicate, their sensibility as well as fancy is more lively ; 
the natural consequence of wiiich is, a more frequent utterance 
of thought, a greater fluency of speech, and a distinct articida* 
tion at an earlier age. But in men who have not mingled early 
and famiharlj' with the world, though rich perhaps in knowledge, 
and clear in apprehension, it is often painful to observe the 
difliculty with which their ideas are communicated by speech, 
through the want of those habits that connect thoughts, words, 
and sounds together ; which, when established, seem as if they 
had arisen spontaneously, but which, in truth, are the result of 
long and painful practice ; and when analysed, exhibit the phe- 
nomena of most curious and comphcated association. 

Societies, then, such as we have been describing, while they 
may be said to put each member in possession of the knowledge 
of all the rest, improve the powers of utterance ; and by the 
coUision of opinion, excite the faculties of reason and reflection. 
To those who wish to improve their minds in such intervals of 
labour as the condition of a peasant allows, this method of 
abbreviating instruction, may, under proper regulations, he 
highly useful. To the student, whose opinions, springing out 
of sohtary observation and meditation, are seldom in the fir? t 
instance correct, and which have, notwithstanding, while con- 
fined to himself, an increasing tendency to assume in his own eye 
the character of demonstrations, an association of this kind, 
where they may be examined as they arise, is of the utmost 
importance ; since it may prevent those illusions of imagination, 
by which genius being bewildered, science is often debased, and 
error propagated through successive generations. And to men 
who having cultivated letters, or general science, in the course 
of their education, are engaged in the active occupations of life, 
and no longer aljle to devote to study or to books the time 
reqiusite for improving or preserving their acquisitions, associa- 
tions of this kind, where the mind mav unbend from its usual 



JCAN ABMOUS. 

cares in discussions of literature or science, afford the niott 
pleasing, the most useful, and the most rational of gratiti- 
cations. 

Whether in the humLle societies of which he was a member, 
Burns acquired much direct iuibnnation, may perhaps be ques- 
tioned. It cannot, however, be doubted, that by collision, the 
faculties of his mind would be excited ; that by practice hia 
habits of enunciation would be established ; and thus we have 
some explanation of tliat early command of words and of 
expression which enabled him to pour forth his thoughts in 
language not unworthy of his genius, and which, of all nis 
endowments, seemed, on his appearance in Edinburgh, the 
most extraordinary. For associations of a hterary nature, our 
poet acquired a considerable relish ; and happy had it been for 
him, after he emerged from the condition of a peasant, if fortune 
had permitted him to enjoy them in the degree of which he was 
capable, so as to have fortified his principles of virtue by the 
purification of his taste ; and given to the energies of his mind 
habits of exertion that might have excluded other associations, 
in which it must be acknowledged they were too often wasted, 
as well as debased. 

[The allusions in Burns's letter, and that of his brother, to his 
connection with Jean Annom*, afibrd but a vague account of 
that aftair ; and it seems necessary that some farther and clearer 
particulars should be given now.] 

John Blane reports the following interesting circumstances 
respecting the attachment of the poet to Miss Armour : — There 
was a siugiug-scliGol at Mauchhne, which Blane attended. 
Jean Aiinour was also a pupil, and he soon became aware of 
her talents as a vocalist. He even contracted a kind of attach- 
ment to this yoimg woman, though only such as a country lad 
of his degree might entertain for the daughter of a substantial 
country mason. One night, there was a rocking at Mossgie',,.. 
where a lad named Ralph Sillar sang a number of songs in wha: 
was considered a superior style. When Burns and Blane were 
retired to their usual sleeping place in the stable-loft, the forme: 
asked the latter what he thought of Sdlar's singing, to which 
Blane answered that the lad thought so much of it himself, and 
had so many airs about it, that there was no occasion for others 
expressing a favourable opinion — yet, he added, " I would not 
give Jean Armour for a score of him." " You are always talk- 
ing of this Jean Armour," said Burns ; " I vnsh you could 
contrive to bring me to see her." Blane readily consented to 
do so, and next evening, after the plough was loosed, the two 
proceeded to Mauchline for that purpose. Bm-ns went into a 
public-house, and Blane went into the singing-school, which 
chanced to be kept in the floor above. When the school waa 
dismissing, Blane asked Jean Armour if she would come to see 
Hobert Burns, who was below and anxious to speak to her. 
Having heard of his poetical talents, she said she would like 
much to see him, but was afraid to go without a female com- 
panion. This difficulty being overcome by the frankness of a 
Miss Morton— the Miss Morton of the Six Mauchline Bellet— 



52 IIEE OF BUBKS. 

Jean went down to the room where Burns was sitting. " Prom 
that time," Blane adds very naively, " I had little of the com- 
pany of Jean Armour." 

Here for the present ends the story of Blane. The results of 
Burns'3 acquaintance with Jean have been already in part 
detailed. When her pregnanc,y could he no longer concealed, 
the poet, under the influeiTcc of honourable fceUng, gave her a 
written paper, in which he acknowledged his being her husband 
—a document suthcieut to constitute a marriage in Scotland, 
If nc*^^ in the eye of decency, at least in +hat of law. But hey 
fathei, from a dislike to Burns, whose theological satires had 
greatly shocked him, and from hopelessness of his being able 
to support her as a husband, insisted that she should destroy 
this paper, and remain as an unmarried woman. 

Some violent scenes ensued. The parents were enraged at the 
imprudence of their daughter, and at Ijurns. The daughter, 
trembling beneath their indignation, could ill resist the com- 
mand to forget and abandon her lover. He, in his turn, was 
filled with the extremest anguish when informed that she had 
given him up. Another event occurred to add to the torments 
of the unhappy poet. Jean, to avoid the immediate pressure of 
her father's displeasure, went, about the month of May, (1786,) 
to Paisley, and took refuge with a relation of her mother, one 
Andrew Purdie, a wright. There was at Paisley a certain 
Robert Vv'ilson, a good-looking young weaver, a native of Mauch- 
line, and who was realising wages to the amount of three 
pounds a-week by his then flovu'ishing profession. Jean Armour 
had danced with this " gallant weaver " at the Mauchline danc- 
ing-school balls, and, besides her relative Purdie, she knew no 
other person in Paisley. Being in mu.ch need of a small supply 
of money, she found it necessary to apply to Mr. Wilson, who 
received her kindly, although he did not conceal that he had a 
suspicion of the reason of her visit to Paisley. When the reader 
is remindeo that village life is not the sphere in which high- 
vrought and romantic feelings are most apt to flourish, he will 
* prepared in some measure to learn that Bobert Wilson not 
only reheved the necessities of the fair applicant, but formed the 
wish to possess himself of her hand. He called for her several 
times at Purdie's, and informed her, that if she should not 
become the wife of Burns, he would engage himself to none 
while she remained unmarried. Mrs. Burns long after assured 
a female friend that she never gave the least encouragement to 
Wilson : hut, nevertheless, his visits occasioned some gossip, 
which soon found its way to Mauchline, and eiitered the soul of 
the poet like a demoniac possession. He now seems to have 
regarded her as lost to bim for ever, and that not purely through 
the objec*-.ions of her relations, but by her own cruel and peijured 
desertion of one whom she had acknowledged as her husband. 
It requires these particulars, little as there may be of pleasing 
about them, to make us fully understand much of what Burns 
wrote at this time, both in verse and prose. Long aftevwanls, 
"he became convinced that Jean, by no part of her conduct with 
"espcet t>o Wilson, had given him just cause for jealousy * is 



JEAN ARMOUB. 53 

mprobable that lie learned in time to make it the subject of 
gport, and wrote the sons;, " Where Cart rins rowinp; to the 
sea," in jocular allusion to .it. l>ut for months — and it is dis- 
tressing to think that these were the mouths during which he 
was luitting his matchless poems for the first time to press — he 
conceived himself the victim of a faithless woman, and life was 
to him, as he himself describes it, — '** 

" a weary dream. 

The dream of ane that never wauks." 

In a letter, dhted June 12, 1786, he says, "Poor ill-a'lvl«'<J 
ungrateful Armour, came home on Friday last. You have heard 
all the particulars of that aflair, and a black affair it is. What 
she thinks of her conduct now, I don't know ; one thing I do 
know, she has made me completely miserable. Never man 
loved, or rather adored, a woman more than 1 did her ; and, to 
confess a truth, between you and me, I do love her still to dis- 
traction, after all, though I won't tell her so if I were to see her, 
which 1 don't want to do. * * May Almighty God forgive 
her ingratitude and perjury to me, as I irom my very soiii 
forgive her." On the 9th of July he writes — " 1 have waited 
on Armour since her return home, not from the least view of 
reconcihation, but merely to ask for her health, and — to you I 
will confess it — from a foolish hankering fuudness — very ill 
placed indeed. The mother forbade ine the bouse, nor did Jean 
show the penitence that might have been expi-cted. However, 
the priest, I am informed, mil give me a certificate as a single 
man, if I comply with the rules of the church, which for that 
very reason I intend to do. I am going to ])ut on sackcloth and 
ashes this day. I am indulged so far as to appear in my own 
seat. Feccavi, pater, miserere mei." 

In a letter of July 17, to Mr. David Bricc, of Glasgow, the 
poet thus continues his story : — I have already appeared pub- 
licly in church, and was indulged in the liberty of standing in 
my own seat. Jean and her fi'ieuds insisted much that she 
sliould stand aloa§ with me in the kirk, but the minister would 
not allow it, which bred a great trouble, I assure you, and I am 
blamed :is the cause of it, though I am sure J am innocent ; but 
I am very much pleased for all that, not to have had her com- 
pany." And again, July 30 — , " Armoiu: has got a warrant to 
throw me in jail till I find security for an enormous sum. This 
thej' keep an entire secret, but 1 got it by a channel they little 
dream of; and I am wandering from one friend's house to 
«inother, and, hke a true son of the gospel, ' have nowhere to 
lay my head.' I know you will pour an execration on her head, 
but spare the poor iU-advised girl, for my sake ; though may 
all the furies that rend the injured, euraged lover's bosom, 
await her mother until her latest hour ! 1 write in a moment 
of rage, reflecting on my miserable situation — exiled, abandoned; 
forlorn." 

In this dark period, or immediately before it, (July 22,) the 
poet signed an instrument, in anticipation of his immediately 
leaving the kingdom, by which he devised all property of what- 

T> 3 



64 liFE OE EUBNS. 

ever "kind he might leave behind, including the cop3Tigh'l: of bis 
poems, to his brother Gilbert, in consideration of the hatter 
having- undertaken to support his daughter Elizabeth, the issue 
of " Ehzabeth Paton in Largieside." Intimation of tliis instru- 
ment was pubhcly made at the Cross of Ayr, two daj's after, by 
William Chalmers, writer. If he had been upon better terms 
with the Armours, tt seems unlikely that he would have thus 
devised his property without a respect for the claims of his 
ofl'spring by Jean. 

After this we hear no more of the legal severities of Mr. 
Armour — the object of which was, not to abridfe the liberty of 
the unfortunate Burns, but to drive him away from the country, 
so as to leave Jean more effectually disengaged. The Poems 
now appeared, and probablj' had some effect in allaying the hos- 
tihty of the old man towards their author. It would, at least, 
appear that, at the time of Jean's accouchement, September 3rd, 
the " skulking " had ceased, and the parents of the young woman 
were not so cruel as to forbid his seeing her. We now resume 
the story of John Blane. 

At this time Blane had removed from Mossgiel to Mauchline, 
and become servant to Mr. Gavin Hamilton ; but Burns stiU 
remembered their old acquaintance. When, in consequence of 
information sent by the Armours as to Jean's situation, the 
poet came from Mossgiel to visit her, he called in passing at 
Mr. Hamilton's, and asked John to accompany him to the house. 
Bla.Tie went with him to Mr. Armour's, where, according to his 
recollection, the bard was received \vith all desirable civility. 
Jean held up a pretty female infant to Burns, who took it 
alfectiouately in his arms, and, after keeping it a little while, 
returned it to the mother, asking the blessing of God Almighty 
u])on her and licr infant. He was turning away to converse 
with the other people in the room, when Jean said archly, " But 
this is not all — here is another babj'," and handed him a male 
cl»ild, wliich had been born at the same time. He was greatly 
surprised, but took that child too for a Uttle time into his arms, 
and repeated his blessing upon it. (This child was afterwards 
named Robert, and still hves : the girl was named Jean, but 
only lived fourteen months.) The mood of the melancholy poet 
then changed to the mirthful, and the scene was concluded by his 
gi\'ing the ailing lady a hearty caress, and rallying her on this 
promising beginning of her history as a mother. 

It would appear, from the \\'ords used by the poet on this 
occasion, that he was not without hope of yet making good his 
matrimonial alhance with Jean. This is rendered the mcra 
likely by the evidence which exists of his having, for some time 
durmg September, entertained a hope of obtaining an excise 
appointment, through his friends Hamilton and Aiken ; in which 
case he woidd have been able to present a respectable claim upot 
the countenance of the Armours. But this prospect ended in 
disappointment ; and there is reason, to conclude, that in a very 
short time after the accouchement, he was once more forbidden 
to visit the house in which his children and all but wife resided. 
There was at this time a person named John Kennedy, who 



JEAN AEMOUK, •> TWIN CHILDREN. 66 . 

travelled the district on liorscbuck as morcantile agent, juid was 
on intimate terms with IJnrns. One day, as he was i)assing 
Mossgiel, Bm'iis stopped him and matle the reqnest that he 
would return to Maut hlino with a present for " his poor wife." 
Kennedy consented, and the i)oet hoisted upon the pommel of 
the saddle a bag lillcd with the delicacies of the farm. He pro* 
ceeded to 'Mr. Armour's house, and requested permission to see 
Jean, as the bearer of a message and a present from li<jl)ert 
Burns. Mrs. Armour violently protested against his being 
admitted to an interview, and bestowed upon him sundry unce- 
remonious appellations for being the friend of such a man ; she 
was, however, overruled in this instance by her husband, and 
Kennedy was permitted to enter the apartment where Jean was 
lying. He had not been there many minutes, when he heard a 
rushing and screaming in the stiiir, and, immediately after, 
Burns burst into the room, followed closely' by the Armours, 
who seemed to have exhausted their strength in endeavouring to 
repel his intrusion. Burns flew to the bed, and putting his 
cheek to Jean's, and then in succession to those of the slumbering 
infants, wept bitterly. The Armours, it is added bj'- Kennedy, 
who has himself reported the circumstance, remained unaffected 
by his distress ; but whether he was allowed to remain for a 
short time, or immediately after expelled, is not mentioned. 
After hearing this affecting anecdote of Bm-ns, the Lamkni may 
verily appear to us as arising from — 

" No idly feign'd poetic pains." 

The whole course of the Ayr is fine ; but the banks of that 
river, as it bends to the eastward above Mauchline, are singiilarly 
beautiful, and they were frequented, as may be imagined, by 
our poet in his solitary walks. Here the muse often visited him. 
la. one of these wanderings, he met among the woods a cele- 
brated beaiity of the west of Scotland — a ladj^ of whom it is 
said that the charms of her person correspond with the character 
of her mind. This incident gave rise, as might be expected, to 
a poem, of which an account will be found in the following let- 
ter, in which lie enclosed it to the object of his inspiration : — 

" To Miss . 

" Mossgiel, November 18, 1786. 

" Madam. — Poets are such outre beings, so much the children 
of wayward fancy and capricious whim, that I believe the woild 
generally allows them a larger latitude in the laws of propriety 
than the sober sons of judgment and prudence. I mention this 
as an apology for the liberties that a nameless stranger has taken 
with you in the enclosed poem, which he begs leave to present 
you with. Whether it has poetical merit any way worthy of 
the theme, I am not the proper judge, but it is the best my abi- 
lities can produce ; and, what to a good heart will perhaps be a 
superior grace, 'it is equally sincere as fervent. 

" The scenery was nearly taken IVom real hfe, though I dare 
say, madam, you do not recollect it, as I believe you scarcely 
noticed the poetic revcur as he wandered by you. I had roved 



o6 LIFE CP BUBN8. 

>a/ a? (Aixace dii'ected, in the favourite haunts of my muse, on 
ne bank:, of the Ayr, to view nature in all the gaiety of the 
V j-^ual year. The evening sun was flaming over the distant 
WBst<Tn hills : not a breath stirred the crimson opening blossom, 
or the verdant spreading leaf. It was a golden moment for a 
poetic heart. I listened to the feathered warblers, pouring their 
harmony on every hand, with a congenial kindred regard, and 
frequently turned out of my path, lest I should disturb their 
little songs, or frighten them to another station. Surely, said 
I to myself, he must be a wretch indeed, who, regardless of your 
harmonious endeavours to please him, can eye your elusive 
lijghts to discover your secret recesses, and to rob you of all the 
property nature gives you, your dearest comforts, your helpless 
nesthngs. Even the hoary hawthorn twig that shot across the 
way, what heart at such a time but must have been interested in 
its welfare, and wished it preserved from the rudely -browsing 
cattle, or the withering eastern blast ? Such was the scene, 
and such the hour, when in a corner of my prospect I spied 
one of the fairest pieces of natm-e's workmanship that ever 
crowned a poetic landscape, or met a poet's eye ; those visionary 
bards excepted who hold commerce with aerial beings ! Had 
calumny and viUany taken my walk, they had at that moment 
sworn eternal peace with such an object. 

" What an hour of inspiration for a poet ! It would have 
raised plain, dull, historic prose into metaphor and measure. 

" The enclosed song was the work of my return home; and 
perhaps it but poorly answers what might have been expected 
from such a scene. **##*# 

" I have the honour to be, madam, your most obedient, and 
very humble servant, 

" RoBEKT Burns.** 

Twas even — the dewy fields were green 

On every blade the pearls hang : 
The zephyr wanton'd round the bean, 

And bore its fragrant sweets alang 
In every glen the mavis sang. 

All natm-e list'ning seemed the while. 
Except where greenwood echoes rang, 

Amang the braes of Ballochmyle. 

With careless step I onward strayed, 

My heart rejoiced in nature's joy, 
When; musing in a lonely glade, 

A maiden fair I chanc'd to spyj 
Her look was like the morning's eye, 

Her hair like nature's vernal smile 
Perfection whisper'd passing by, 

Behold the lass of Ballochmyle 



BtrSCEPTIBILITT OV BUBKB. 57 

Fair is the morn in flowery May, 

And sweet is night in Autumn mild; 
Wlien roving through the garden gay, 

Or wandering in the lonely wild : 
But woman, Nature's darling child ! 

There all her charms she does compile 
Even there her other works are foil d 

By the bonny lass of Ballochmj'lJi, 

Oh, had she been a country maid, 

And I the happy coimtry swain ! 
Though sheltered in the lowest shed 

That ever rose on Scotland's plain ; 
Through weary winter's wind and rain. 

With joy, 'with rapture I would toil ; 
And nightly to my bosom strain 

The bonny lass of Ballochmyle. 

Then pride might climb the slippery steep, 

Where fame and honours lofty shine j 
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep. 

Or downward seek the Indian mine ; 
Give me the cot below the pine, 

To tend the flocks, or till the soil. 
And every day have joys divine 

With the bonny lass of Ballochmyle." 

lu the manuscript book in which our poet has recoi;nted this 
incident, and into which the letter and poem are copied, he com* 
plains that the lady made no reply to his eftusions, and this 
appears to have wounded his self-love. It is not, however, difii- 
cult to find an excuse for her silence. Burns was at this time 
little known; and, where known at all, noted rather for 
the \vild strength of his humour, than for those strains of ten- 
derness in which he afterwards so much excelled. To the lady 
herseKhisname had, perhaps, never been mentioned, and of such 
a poem she might not consider herself as the proper judge. Her 
modesty might prevent her fi-om perceiving that the muse 
of Tibullus breathed in this nameless poet, and that her 
beauty was awakening strains destined to immortality on the 
banks of the Ayr. It may be conceived, also, that, supposing 
the verse duly appreciated, delicacy might find it difficult to 
express its acknowledgments. The fervent imagination of the 
rustic bard possessed more of tenderness than of respect. Instead 
of raising himself to the condition of the object of liis admiration, 
he presumed to reduce her to his own, and to strain this high- 
born beauty to his daring bosom. It is tme. Bunas might hav a 
found precedents for such ft-eedoms among the poets of Grecct 
and Rome and, indeed, of every country Ajid it is not tc fr% 



68 MFE OS BURNS. 

denied, that lovely women have generally submitted to this sort 
of profanation with patience, and even with good humour. To 
what purpose is it to repine at a misfortune which is the neces- 
sary consequence of their own charms, or to remonstrate with a 
description of men who are incapable of control ? 

" The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, 
Are of imagination aU. compact." 

It may be easily presumed, that the beautiful nymph oi 
Ballochmyle, whoever she may have been, did not reject witli 
scorn the adorations of our poet, though she received them with 
silent modesty and dignified reserve. 

The sensibility of our bard's temper, and the force of his 
imagination, exposed him, in a particular manner, to the impres- 
sions of beauty ; and these quahties, united to his impassioned 
eloqjience, gave him in turn a powerful iniluence over the female 
heart. The banks of the Ayr formed the scene of youthful 
passions of a still tenderer nature, the history of which it would 
be improper to reveal, were it even in our power ; and the traces 
of which wiU soon be discoverable only in those strains of nature 
and sensibihty to which they gave birth. The song entitled 
Highland Mary, is known to relate to one of these attachments. 
" It was writtai," says our bard, " on one of the most inter- 
esting passages of my youthful days." The object of this 
passion died in early life, and the impression left on the mind of 
Burns seems to have been deep and lasting. Several years 
afterwards, when he was removed to Nithsdale, he gave vent to 
the sensibihty of his recollections in the following impassioned 
lines. In the manuscript book fi-om which we extract them 
they are addressed to To Mary in Heaven ! 

" Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray, 

That lov'st to greet the early morn, 
Again thou usher'st in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 
Oh, Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of bhssful rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his hvenst ^ 

That sacred hour can I forget, 

Can I forget the hallowed grove, 
Where by the winding Ayr we met 

To live one day of parting love ? 
Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports past 
Thy image at our last enabrace ; 

Ah ! httle thought we * twas oiu: lact 



BUSCEl'TIBILITT O? IIVKNB. 59 

Ayr gurgling kissed his pebbled slierc, 

O'erhung with wild woods, thick'iiiiig green; 
The fragrant birch, and hawthoru lioar, 

Twin'd amorous round the raptured scene. 
The ilowers sprang wantcu to be prest, 

The birds sang love on every si)ray, 
Till too, too soon, the glowing west 

Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. 

Still o'er these s -enes my mem'ry wakes, 

And fondly brooiis with miser care ; 
Time but the impression stronger niakes, 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 
My ]\Iary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lo\vly laid ! 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his 
breast?" 

To the dehneations of the poet by himself, by liis brother, 
and by his tutor, these additions are necessary, in order that the 
reader may see his character in its various aspects, and may 
have an opportunity of forming a just tiotion of the variety, as 
wtll as of the power of his original genius. 

We have dwelt the longer on the early part of his life, because 
it is the least known, and because, as has already been mentioned, 
this part of his history is connected with some views of the con- 
dition and manners of the humblest ranks of society, hitherto 
little observed, and which will perhaps be found neither useless 
nor miiuteresting. 

About the time of his leaving liis native country, his corres- 
pondence commences ; and in the series of letters given to the 
world, the chief incidents of the remaining part of his hfe will 
be found. The authentic, though melancholy record, will 
supersede the nccessitj' of any extended narrative. 

Burns set out for Edinburgh in the month of November, 1786. 
He was furnished with a letter of introduction to Dr.„Blacklock 
from the gentleman to w^hom the doctor had addressed the lettei 
which is represented by our bard as the immediate cause of his 
visiting the Scottish metropolis. He was acquainted with Mr. 
Stewart, Professor of Moral Philosophy in the universitj-, and 
had been entertained by that gentleman atCatrine, his estate in 
Ayrshire. He had been introduced by ]\h. Alexander Diilzeil 
to the Earl of Glencairn, who had expressed his high approbation 
of his poetical talents. He had friends, therefore, who could 
introduce him into the circles of literature as well as of fashion, 
and his own manners and appearance exceeding every expecta- 
tion that could have been formed of them, he soon became an 
object of general curiosity and admiration. The following cir- 
cumstance ceutributed to this in a remarkable degree : — At the 



60 LIFE OP BUENS. 

time when Burns arrived in Edmburg-h, the periodical paper, 
entitled the Lomiger, was publishing, every Satar:Jay produc- 
ing a successive number. His poems had attracted the notice 
ot the gentlemen engaged in that undertaking, and the ninety- 
seventh number of tiiose unequal, though frequently beautifal 
essays, is devoted to An Account of Robert Burns, theA^Tshire 
Ploughman, with Extracts from his Poems, written by the ele- 
gant pen of Mr. Mackenzie. The Lounger had an pji tensive cir- 
culation among persons of taste and Uterature, not Vj. Scotland 
only, but in various parts of England, to whose acquaintance, 
therefore, our bard was immediately introduced. The paper of 
Mr. Mackenzie was calculated to introduce him advantageously. 
The extracts are well .selected ; the criticisms and reflections are 
judicious as well as gonerous ; and in the style and sentiments 
there is that happy dehcacy, by which the writings of the 
author are so eminently distinguished. The extracts from 
Burns's poems in the ninety-seventh number of the Lounger, 
were copied iuto the London as well as into many of the pro- 
vincial papers , and the fame of our bard spread throughout the 
island. Of the manners, character, and conduct of Ihirns at this 
period, the following account bas Ijeen given by Mr. Stewart, 
Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh, 
in a letter to the Editor, which he is particularly happy to have 
obtair.ed permission to insert in these menioirs : — 

" The first time I saw Robert Burns was on the 23rd of Octo- 
ber, 1786, when he dined at my bouse in Ayrshire, together 
with our common friend Mr. John Mackenzie, surgeon iji 
Mauchline, to whom I am indebted for the pleasure of his 
acquaintance. I am enabled to mention the date particularly, 
by some verses which Burns wrote after he returned home, and 
in which the day of our meethig is recorded. My excellent and 
much-lamented friend, the late Basil, Lord Daer, happened to 
an-ivc at Catrine the same day, and by the kindness and frank- 
ness of his manners, left an impression on tbe mind of the poet 
which was never effiiced. The verses I allude to are among the 
most imperfect of his pieces ; but a few stanzas may perhaps be 
an object of curiosity to you, both on account of the character to 
which they relate, and of the hght which they throw on the 
situation and feeUngs of the writer, bel'ore his name was known 
to the public. 

I cannot positively saj^, at this distance of time, wheither, at 
the period of our first acquaintance, the Kilmarnock edition of 
his poems had been just pubhshcd, or was j'ct in the press. I 
suspect that the latter was the case, as I have still in my pos- 
session copies in his own handwriting of some of his favoimte 
perforitances ; particularly of his Verses on Turning up a Mouse 
with his Plough ; the Mountain Daisy ; and the Lament. On my 
return to Edinburgh, I showed the volume, and mentioned what 
1 knew of the author's history, to several of my friends, and 
among others to Mr. Henry Mackenzie, who first recommended 
him te pul)lic notice in the ninety-seventh nimiber of Tbe 
Lounger 



BUENS VISITS EDINBDKGH. 61 

** At this time Burns's prospects in life wore so extremely 
gloomy, that he liad seriously i'orinod a plan of going out to 
Jamaica iu a very huniMc situalioii ; not, however, without 
lamenting that, his want of patroua^-o should force him to think 
of a project so repugnant to his feelings, when his amhition 
aimed at no higher an object than the station of an excisemac 
or guagcr in his own country. 

_ " His manners were then, as they continued ever aftcrwa .-.l^ 
simple, manlj', and indeijcndent ; strongly expressive of coj. 
scions genius and worth, hut without anything that indicatcii 
forwardness, arrogance, or vanit3^ He took his share in con- 
versation, hut not more than belonged to him; and listened with 
apparent attention and deference on subjects where his want of 
education deprived him of the means of information. If there 
had been a little more of gentleness and accommodation in his 
temper, he woidd, I think, have been still more interesting, but 
he had been accustomed to give law in the circle of his ordinary 
acquaintance; and his dread of anything approaching to mean- 
ness or servility rendered his manner somewhat decided and 
hard. Nothing, perhaps, was more remarkable among his 
varied attainments, than the fluency, and precision, and origi- 
nality of his language, when he spoke in company ; more par- 
ticularly as he aimed at purity in his turn of expression, and 
avoided more successfully than most Scotchmen the pecviliarities 
of Scottish phraseology. 

" He came to Edinburgh early iu the winter following, and 
remained there for several months. By whose advice he took 
til is step I am unable to say. Perhaps it was suggested only by 
his own curiosity to see a little more of the world ; but, I con ' 
less, I dreaded the consequences from the first, and always 
wished that his pursuits and habits should continue the same as 
in the former part of his life — with the addition of, what I con- 
sidered as then completely within his reach, a good farm, on 
moderate terms, in a part of the country which was agreeable to 
his taste. 

" The attentions he received during his stay in town from all 
ranks and descriptions of persons, were such as would have 
turned any head but his own. I cannot say that I could per- 
ceive any unfavourable eflect which they left on his mind. He 
retained the same simplicity of manners and appearance which 
had sti-uck me so forcibly when I first saw him in the country ; 
nor did he seem to feel any additional self-importance from the 
number and rank of his new acquaintance. His dress was per- 
fectly suited to his station, plain and unpretending, with a 
sufficient attention to neatness. If I recollect right, he always 
wore boots; and when on more than usual cetemony, buckskic 
breeches. 

"The variety of his engagements, while in Edinburgh, pre- 
vented me from seeing him so often as I could have wished. In 
the course of the spring he i ailed on me once or twice, at my 
request, early in the inorning, and walked with me to Braid 
Hills, in the neighbourhood of the town, when he charmed me 
still more by his piivate conversation than he had ever don« ii» 

o 



62 LIFB OF BUENS. 

company. He was passionately fond of fSe beauties of nature; 
and I recollect once he told me, when I was admiring a distant 
prospect in one of our morning walks, that the sight of so many 
smoking cottages gave a pleasui-e to his mind, which none could 
understand who had not witnessed, like himsslf, the happiness 
and the worth which they contained. 

" In his political principles he was tnen a Jacobite ; 
which was perhaps owing partly to this, that his father was 
originally from the estate of Lord Maresclial. Indeed, he did 
not appear to have thought much on such sulijects, nor very con- 
sistently. He had a very strong sense of religion, and expressed 
deep regret at the levity with which he had heard it treated 
occasionally in some convivial meetings which he frequented. 
I speak of him as he was in the winter of 1786-7 ; for afterwards 
we met but seldom, and our conversations turned chiefly on his 
literary projects, or his private affairs. 

" I do not recollect whether it appears or not from any of your 
letters to me that you had ever seen Burns. If you have, it is 
superfluous for me to add, that the idea which his conversation 
■"conveyed of the powers of his mind, exceeded, if possible, that 
which is suggested bj"- his writings . Among the poets whom J 
have happe)ied to know, I have been struck, in more than one 
instance, with the unaccountable disparity between their gene- 
ral talents and the occasional inspirations of their more favoured 
moments. But all the faculties of Burns's mind were, as iur as 
1 could judge, equally vigorous ; and his predilection for poetry 
was rather the result of his own enthusiastic and impassioned 
temper, than of a genius exclusively adapted to that species of 
composition. From his co nversation I should have pronounced 
him to be fitted to excel in whatever walk of ambition he had 
chosen to exert his abihties. 

" Among the subjects on which he was accustomed to dwell, 
the characters of the individuals whom he happened to meet, 
was plainly a favourite one. The remarks he made on them 
were alwaj'S shrewd and pointed, though frequently inclining too 
much to sarcasm. His praise of those he loved was sometimes 
indiscriminate and extravagant ; but this, I suspect, proceeded 
ratfier from the caprice and humour of the moment, than from 
the effects of attachment in blinding his judgment. His wit 
was ready, and always impressed with the marks of a vigX)rous 
understanding ; but to my taste, not often pleasing or happj'. 
His attempts at epigram, in his printed works, are the only per- 
formances, perhaps, that he has pi'oduced totally unworthy oi 
his genius. 

" hi summer 1787, 1 passed some weeks in Ayrshire, f. id sav^ 
Burns occasionally. I thinjc that he made a pretty long exci.r 
sion that season to the Highlands, and that he also visited what 
Beattie calls the Arcadian ground of Scotland, upon the banki of 
the Teviot and the Tweed. 

"I should have mentioned before, that, notwithstanding 
various reports I heard during the preceding winter, of Bums's 

Eredilection for convivial, and not very select society, I should 
ave concluded in favour of his habits of sobriety, from aU of hint* 



BUENS'S VI8IT TO KDINBCBOH. 68 

that wver fell under my own observation. lie told me indeed 
himself, that the weakness of his stomach wjis such, as to deprive 
him entirely of any merit in his temperance. I was, however, 
Bomewhat alarmed about the effect of his now comparatively 
sedentary and luxurious life, when he conlessed to me, the lirst 
niglit he spent in my house after his winter's campaign in town, 
that he had been much disturbed when in bed by a palpitation 
at his heart, which, he said, was a complaint to which he had of 
late become subject. 

" In the course of the same season, I was led by curiosity to 
attend for an hour or two a Mason Lodge in Mauchline, where 
Burns presided. lie had occasion to make some short unpre- 
meditated comphments to different individuals from whom he 
had no reason to expect a \'isit, and everything he said was 
happily conceived, and forcibly as well as fluently expressed. 
If I am not mistaken, he told me, that iu that village, before 
going to Edinburgh, he had belonged to a small club of such of 
the inhabitants as had a taste for books, when thoy used to 
converse and debate on any interesting questions that occurred 
to them in the course of their reading. His manner of speaking 
in pubUc had evidently the marks of some practice in extempore 
elocution, 

" I must not omit to mention, what I have always considered 
as characteristical in a high degree of true genius, the extreme 
facility and good-nature of his taste, in judging of the composi- 
tions of others, where there was any real ground for praise. I 
repeated to him many passages of J'^ngiish poetry with which ho 
was unacquainted, and have more than once witnessed the tears 
of admiration and rapture with which he heard them. The 
collection of songs by Dr. Aikin, which I first put into his hands, 
he read with unmixed dehght, notwithstanding his former 
efforts in that very difficult species of writing ; and I have httle 
doubt that it had some efl'ect in polishing his subsequent com- 
positions. 

" In judging of prose, I do not think his taste was equally' 
sound. I once read to him a passage or two in Franklin's 
works, which I thought very happilj-^ executed, upon the model 
of Addison; but he did not appear to rehsh, or to perceive the 
beauty which they derived from their exquisite simplicity, and 
spoke of them with indifference, when compai*ed with the i)oint, 
and antithesis, and quaintncss of Junius. The influence of this 
taste is very perceptible in his own prose compositions, although 
their great and various excellences render some of them scarcely 
less onjects of wonder than his poetical performances. The late 
Dr. Robertson used to say, that considering his education, the 
former seemed to him the more extraordinarj"- of the two. 

" His memory was uncommonly retentive, at least for poetry, 
of which he recited to me frequently long compositions with the 
most minute accuracy. They were chief!}' ballads, and other 
pieces in our Scottish dialect ; great part of them, lie told me, 
he had learned in his childhood from his mother, who delighted 
in such recitations, and whose poetical taste, rude as it proba- 
bly was, gave, it is presumable, the first direction to her son'i 
genius. 



64 I'lT'E or BUKNS. 

" Of the more polished verses which accidentally fell iutf his 
hands in his early years, he mentioned particularly the retom- 
mendatorj- poems by different authors, prefixed to Her-\ey'3 
Meditations, a book which has always had a very wide circulatio _ 
among such of the country people of Scotland as affect to unite 
some degree of taste witli their religious studies. And these 
poems (although they are certainly below mediocrity,) he conti 
nued to read with a degree of rapture beyond expression. He took 
nc^tice of this fact himself, as a proof how much the taste is hable 
to he influenced by accidental circumstances. 

" His father appeared to me, from the account he gave of him, 
to have been a respectable and worthy character, possessed of a 
mind superior to what might have been expected from las station 
in life. He ascribed much of his own principles and feehngs to 
the early impressions he had received from his iustiiictions and 
example. I recollect that he once applied to him (and he added, 
that the passage was a literal statement of the fact,) the tvvo last 
Unes of the following passage in the Minstrel, the whole cf which 
he repeated with great enthusiasm : — 

* Shall I be left forgotten in the dust. 
When fate, relenting, lets the flower revive ; 

Shall Nature's voice, to man alone unjust, 

Bid him, though doom'd to perish, hope to live ! 

Is it for this fair virtue oft must strive 
With disappointment, penury, and pain ? 

No ! Heaven's immortal spring shall yet arrive. 
And man's majestic beauty bloom again. 

Bright through th' eternal j^ear of love's triumphant 
reign. 
This truth suhlimc his simple sire had taught: 
In sooth, 'twas almost all the shepherd knew. 

" With respect to Burns's early education, I cannot say any- 
thing with certainty. He always spoke with respect and gra- 
titude of the schoolmaster who had taught him to read English, 
and who, finding in his scholar a more than ordinary ardour for 
knowledge, had been at pains to instruct him in the grammati- 
cal principles of the langtiage. He began the study of Latin, 
but di'opped it before he had finished the verbs. I have some- 
times heard him quote a few Latin words, such as omnia vincit 
amor, &c., but they seemed to be such as he had caught from 
conversation, and which he repeated by rote. I think he had a 
project, after he came to Edinburgh, of prosecuting the study 
ander his intimate friend, the late Mr. Nicol, one of the masters 
)f the grammar-school here : but I do not know that he ever 
proceeded so far as to make the attempt. 

" He certainly possessed a smatterhig of French ; and if he 
had an affectation in anytihng, it was in introducing occasionally 
a word or phrase ft-om that language. It is possible that his 
knowledge in this respect might be more extensive than I sup- 



UTERAEY EECKPXION OF BURNS. 6ft 

post It to be; but this yon can learn from his more intiraat<? 
ncquamtance. It woulti be wortli while to enquire, whether he 
wa.s able to read the French authors witli such facihty as to 
receive iroui them any iiuprgveincuit to his taste. For uiy own 
part, I doubt it much ; nor would 1 believe it but on very strono- 
anil pointed evidence. ° 

" If my memory does not fail me, he was well instructed in 
ai-ithmetic, and knew something of practical geometry, particu- 
larly of surveying. All his other attainments were entirelv his 
own. 

" The last time I saw him was during the winter 1788-1789, 
when he passed an evening with me at Drumseugh, in the neigh- 
bourhood of Edinbvu-gh, where I was then living. My friend, 
Mr. Alison, was the only other person in company. I never 
saw hun more agreeable or interesting. A present which Mr. 
Ahsou sent him afterwards of his Essays on Taste, drew from 
Jiurus a letter of acknowledgment, which I remember to have 
read with some degree of suri)rise, at the distinct conception 
he appeared to ha\e formed from it of the general principles of 
the doctrine ot association." 

The scene that opened f.n our bard at Edinburgh was altoge- 
ther new, and in a variety of other respects highly interesting, 
especially to one of his disposition of mind. To use an expres- 
sion ot Ins own, he ibund himself " suddenly translated from the 
veriest shades of life," into the presence, and into the societv, 
ot a number of persons, previously known to him by report as of 
the highest distinction in his country, and whose' charactci-s it 
was natural for him to examine with no 'unimon curiosity. 

From the men of letters in general, 1 is reception was particu- 
larly flattering. The late Dr. Kobertson, Dr. BLiir, Dr. Gre- 
gory, Mr. Stewart, Mr. Mackenzie, and Mr. Eraser Tvtler, may 
be mentioned in the list of those who perceived his uncommon 
talents, who acknowledged more especially his powers of con- 
versation, and who interested themselves in the cultivation d 
his genius. In Edinburgh literary and fashionable society are 
a good deal mixed. Our bard was an acceptable guest in the 
gayest and most elevated circles, and froquentlv received from 
female beauty and elegance those attentions above all others 
most grateful to him. At the table of Lci-d Monboddo he was 
a frequent guest ; and while he enjoyed the society and partock 
ot the hospitalities of the venerable judge, he experienced the 
kindness and condescension of his lovely and accomplished 
daughter. The singular beauty of this young lady was illumi- 
nated by that happy expression of countenance which results 
from the union of cultivated taste and superior understanding 
with the finest afiections of tlie mind. The iiiHuence of such 
attractions was not unfelt by our poet. " There has not l;een 
atiything like Miss Burnet," said he, in a letter to a friend, " in 
all the com])iuations of beauty, grace, and goodness the Creator 
has formed since Milton's Eve on the first day of her existence." 
In his address to Edinburgh, she is celebrattdin a strain of still 
greater elevation : — 



a& tIFE Olf UUUNft. 

" Fair Burnet strikes th' adorning eye, 

Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine ; 
1 see the Sire of Love on high, 

And own his work indeed divine ! " 

This lovely woman died a few years afterwai'ds in the &<m(H 
of yoiith. Our bard expressed his sensibihty on that occivsioD 
in verses addressed to her memory. 

Among the men of rank and fashion Burns was particularly 
distinguished by James, Earl of Glencaim. Chi the ix otion af 
this nobleman, the Caledonian Hunt, an association of the 
principal of the nobility and gentry of Scotland, extended their 
patronage to our bard, and admitted him to their gay orgies. 
He repaid their notice by the dedication of the enlarged and 
improved edition of his poems, in which he has celebrated their 
patriotism and independence in very ammated terms. 

" I congratulate my country that the blood of her ancient 
heroes runs uncontaminated, and that, from your courage, 
knowledge, and public spirit, she may expect protection, wealth 
and liberty. ******* May corruption shrink at 
your kindling indignant glance ; and niay tyranny in the rulcr^ 
and licentiousness in the peoph;, equally find in you an inexora- 
ble foe." 

It is to be presumed that these generous sentimentti, uttered 
at an era singulai'ly propitious to indeper^dence of chara^rter and 
conduct, were favourably received by the persons to whom they 
were addressed, and that they were echoed fi'om every besom, 
as well as from that of the Earl of Glencairn. Tliis accomphshed 
nobleman, a scholar, a man of taste and sensibility, died soon 
afterwards. Had he Uvcd, and had his power equalled his 
wishes, Scotland might still have exulted in the genius, instead 
of lamenting the early fate of her favourite bard. 

A taste for letters is not always conjoined with habits of tem 
perance and regularity ; and Edinburgh, at the period of which 
we speak, contained, perhaps, an uncommon proportion of men 
of considerable talents devoted to social ?xcesses, in wlucli their 
talents were wasted and debased. 

. Burns entered into several parties of this description with 
the usual vehemence of his character. His generous affections, 
iiis ardent eloquence, his brilliant and daring imagination, litted 
him to be the idol of such associations; and accustoming himself 
to conversation of unhmited range, and to festive indulgences 
that scorned restraint, he gradually lost some portion of his 
rehsh for the more pure, but less poignant pleasures, to be found 
•n the circles of taste, elegance, and literature. This sudden 
ilteration in his habits of life operated on him physically as well 
as mora%. The humble fare of an Ayrshire peasant he had 
exchanged for the luxuries of the Scottish metropolis, and the 
cfiects of this change on liis ardent constitution could not be 
inconsiderable. But whatever influence might be produced on 
his conduct, his excellent understanding suffered no correspond- 
ing deibasement. He estimated his friends and associates of 



30BNS AHD HIS CONTEJ1POBA11IE3. 67 

every des. riptlon at their proper value, and appreciated liis own 
coiiducx with a precision that might give scope to much curious 
and meUmcholy reflection. He saw his danger, and at times 
formed resohitious to guard iigainst it ; hut he had embarked on 
the tide of dissipation, and w:us borne along its stream. 

Of the state of his mind at this time, an authentic, though 
im])erfect, document remains, in a book which he procured in 
the spring of 1787, for the purpose, as he himself informs us, of 
recording in it whatever seemed worthy of observation. The 
following extracts may serve as a specimen : — 

" Edinburgh, April 9, 1787. 

" As I have seen a good deal of human life at Edinburgh, a 
great many characters which are new to one bred up in the 
shades of life as I have been, I am determined to take down my 
remarks on the spot. Gray observes, in a letter to Mr. Palgrave, 
that ' half a word fixed upon or near a spot, is worth a cartload 
of recollection.' I don't know how it is with the world in gene- 
ral, but with me, making my remarks is by no means a solitary 
pleasure. I want some one to laugh with me, some one to be 
grave with me, some one to please and help my discrimination 
with his or her own remark, and at times, no doubt, to admire 
my acuteuess and penetration. The world are so busied with 
selfish pursuits, ambition, vanity, interest, or pleasure, that 
very few think it worth their while to make any observation on 
what passes around them, except where that observation is a 
sucker or branch of the darling plant they are rearing in their 
fancy. Nor am I sure, notwithstanding all the sentimental 
flights of novel-writers, and the sage philosophy of moralists, 
whether we are capable of so intimate and cordial a coalition of 
fi-iendship, as that one man may pour out his bosom, his every 
thought and floating fancy, his very inmost soul, with unr -;served 
confidence to another, without hazard of losing p'^rl of 'Lt"- 
respect which man deserves from man; or, fi'om th-- •>.n;t\vn.l:^ 
ble imperfections attending human nature, of one day verci.uiaf 
his confidence. 

" For these reasons I am determined to make these p iges my 
confidant. I will sketch every character that any way strikes 
me, to the best of my power, with unslninking justice. I will 
insert anecdotes, and take down remarks, in the old law phrase, 
without feud or favour. Where I hit on anything clever, my 
ov/n applause will in some measure feast ray vanity ; and, beg- 
ging Patroclus' and Achates' pardon, I think a lock and key a 
secmity at least equal to the bosom of any friend whatever. 

" My own private story, Ukewise, my love adventures, niy 
rambles ; the fi-owns and smiles of fortune on my hardship ; 
my poems and fragments that must never sec the light, shall l>e 
occasionally inserted. In short, never did four shillings purchase 
so much friendship, since confidence went first to market, or 
honesty was set up to sale. 

" To these seemingly invidious, but too just ideas of human 
friendship, I would cheerfully make one exception— the connec- 
tion between two persons of different sexes, when their intcvestd 
are united and absorbed by the tie of love — 



CS I'lFE OP BUEIfS. 

Wlien thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part. 
And each warm wish springs mutual from the heart.' 

There confidence — confidence that exalts them the more in one 
another's opinion, that endear", them the more to each other's 
Iiearts, imreservedly 'reigns and revels.' But this is not my 
lot ; and, in my situation, if I am wise (which, by the bye, I 
have no great chance of being), my fate should be cast with the 
Psalmist's spaiTOw, ' to watch alone on the house tops.' Oh 
the pity ! 

" There are few of the sore evils under the sun give me more 
uneasiness and chagrin than the comparison how a man of 
genius, naj^ of avowed worth, is received everywhere, with the 
reception wliich a mere ordinary character, decorated with the 
trappings and futile distinctions of fortune, meets. I imagine 
a man ofabilities, his breast glowing with honest pride, conscious 
that men are born equal, still giving honour to tv7wm honour is 
due ; he meets at a great man's table, a Squire sometliiiig, or a 
Sir somebody J he knows the noble landlord, at heart, gives the 
bard, or whatever he is, a share of his good wishes, beyond, per- 
haps, any one at table ; yet how will it mortify him to see a 
fellow whose abilities would scarcely have made an eiglitpenny 
tailor, and whose heart is not worth three farthings, meet with 
attention and notice that are withheld fi-om the son of genius 
and poverty ! 

"The noble Glencairn has wounded me to the soul here, 
because I dearly esteem, respect, and love him. He showed so 
much attention, engrossing attention, one day, to the only 
blockhead at table (the whole company consisted of his lordship, 
dunderpate, and myself), that I was within half a point of throw- 
ing down my gage of contemptuous defiance; but he shook my 
hand, and looked so benevolently good at parting. God bless 
him ! though I should never see him more, I shall love him until 
my dying day ! I am pleased to think I am so capable of the 
throes of gratitude, as I am miserably deficient in some other 
virtues. 

" With Dr. Blair I am more at my ease. I never respect 
him with humble veneration; but when he kindly interests 
himself in my welfare, or still more, when he descends from his 
pinnacle, and meets me on eqvial ground in conversation, my 
heart overflows with what is called liking. When he neglects 
me for the mere carcase of greatness, or when his eye measures 
the difference of our points of elevation, I say to myself, with 
scarcely any emotion, what do I care for him or his pomp either ?" 

The intentions of the poet in procuring this book, so fully 
described by himself, were very imperfectly executed. He has 
inserted in it few, or no i)icidents, but several observations and 
reflections, of which the greater part that are proper for tha 
pubhc eye will be found interwoven in his letters. The most 
curious particulars in the book are the delineations of the cha 
racters he met with. These are not numerous ; but they are 
chiefly of persons of distinction in the republic of letters, and 



UURN8 AND HIS CONTEMPORAEIES. 09 

aotliing but tlie delicacy and respect due to living cbaractws 
prevents us from connnittin-r tlunn to the press. Though it 
appears that in his conversation lie was sometimes disposed to 
sarcastic remarks on the men with whom he li\ed, nothiug of 
this kind is discoveral)lc in these more deiiberato efforts ot his 
understanding, which, wliilc they exhibit great clearness of 
discrimination, manifest also the wish, as well as the power, to 
bestow high and generous i)raise. 

As a specimen of these delineations, we give the character of 
Dr. Blair, who has now paid the debt of nature, in the fuU 
confidence that this freedom will not be found inconsistent with 
the respect and veneration due to that excellent man. the last 
star m the literary constellation, by which the metropolis of 
Scotland was, in the earlier part of the present reign, so beauti- 
fully illuminated. 

" It is not easy forming an exact judgment of any one ; but, 
in my opinion. Dr. Blair is merely an astonishing proof of what 
industry and application can do. Natural pjuls like his are 
frequently to be met with ; his vanity is proverbially known 
among his acquaintance ; but he is justly at the head of what 
may be called tine writing ; and a critic of the first, the very 
first rank in prose ; even in poetry, a bard of Nature's making 
can only take the pas of his. He has a heart, not of the very 
finest water, but far from being an ordinary one. In short, he 
is truly a worthy and most respectable character." 

" []\Ir. Cromek informs us that one of the poet's remarks, 
when he first came to Edinburgh, was, that between the men of 
rustic life and the pohte world he observed little difference ; that 
in the former, though unpolished by fashion and unenlightened 
by science, he had found much observation, and much intelh- 
gence; but a refined and accomplished woman was a thing 
almost new to him, and of which he had formed but a verv 
inadequate idea. Mr. Lockhart adds, that there is reason to 
believe that Burns was much more a favourite amongst the 
fmnale than the male part of elevated Edinburgh society to 
which he was introduced, and that, in consequence, in all pro- 
babihty, of the greater deference he paid to the gentler sex. " It 
is sufficiently apparent," adds Mr. L., "that there were many- 
points in Burns's conversational habits, which men, accustomed 
to the delicate observances of refined society, might be more 
willing to tolerate under the first excitement of personal cm-iosity, 
than from any very deliberate estimate of the claims of such a 
genius, under such circumstances developed. He by no means 
restricted his sarcastic observations on those whom he encouo- 
tered in the world to the confidence of his note-book, but startled 
ears polite with the utterance of audacious epigrams, far too 
witty not to obtain general circulation in so small a society as 
that of the northern capital, far too bitter not to produce deep 
resentment, far too numerous not to spread fear almost as widelv 
as admiration." An example of his unsci-upulousness is thus 
given by Mr. Ci-omek. " At a private breakfast, in a literary 
circle of Edinburgh, the conversation turned on the poetical 
merit and pathos oi' Gray's Elegy, a po^m of which he w 



70 I-IFE OP BURNS. 

enthusiastically fond. A clergyman present, remarkable for 
his love of paradox, and for his eccentric notions upon every 
subject, distinguished himself by an injudicious and ill-timed 
attack on tliis exquisite poem, which Burns with generous 
warmth for the reputation of Gray, manfidly defended. As the 
gentleman's remarks were rather general than specific, Burns 
urged him to bring forward the passages which he thought 
exceptionable. He made several attempts to quote the poem, 
but always in a bhmdering, inaccurate maimer. Burns bore all 
this for a good while with his usual good-natured forbearance, 
till at length, goaded by the fastidious criticisms and wretched 
quibblings of his opponent, he roused himself, and with an eye 
flashing contempt and indignation, and with great vehemence 
of gesticulation, he thns addressed the cold critic : 'Sir, I now 
perceive a man may be an excellent judge of poetry by square 
and rule, and after all be a d — d blockhead.' " " To pass from 
these trifles," says Mr. Lockart, " it needs no effort of imagina- 
tion to conceive what the sensations of an isolated set of scholars 
(almost all either clergj-meu or professors,) must have been in 
the presence of this big-boned, black-browed, brawny stranger, 
with his great flashing eyes, who havirg forced his way among 
them from the plough-tail, at a single stride, manifested, in the 
whole strain of his bearing and conversation, a most thorough 
conviction, that, in the society of the most eminent men of his 
nation, he was exactly where he was entitled to be; hardly 
deigned to flatter them by exhibiting even an occasional s^-^mp- 
t07ii of being^ flattered by their notice ; by turns c;dmly measured 
himself against the most cultivated understandings of his time 
iti discussion ; overpowered the hon mots of the most celebrated 
convivialists by broad floods of menimcnt, impregnated with aU 
the burning life of genius ; astounded bosoms habitually 
enveloped in thrice-plied folds of social reserve, by compelling 
them to tremble, nay, to trenible visibly, beneath the fearless 
touch of natural patlios ; and all this Mjithout indicating the 
smallest wilhngness to be ranked among those professional 
ministers of excitement, wdio are content to be paid u\ money and 
smiles for doing wdiat the spectators and auditors would be 
ashamed of doing in their own persons, even if they had the 
power of doing it ; and, last, and probably worst of all, who was 
known to be in the habit of enlivening societies which they 
would have scorned to approach, still more frequently than their 
own, with eloquence no less magnificent; with wit in all \\kc- 
lihood still more daring ; often enough, as the superiors whom 
he fi-ontedAvithout alarm, might have guessed from the beginning 
and had, ere long, no occasion to guess, with wit pointed at 
themselves."] 

" Bj- the new edition of his poems Burns acqmi-ed a sum of 
money that enabled him cot only to partake of the pleasures of 
Edinburgh, but to gratify a desire he had long entertained, of 
visiting those parts of his native country most attractive by their 
beauty or their grandeur ; a desire which the retiu-n of sumucer 
naturally revived. The scenery on the banks of the Tweed, and 
of its tnbutary streams, strongly interested liis fancy; and 



THE DIARY. 7l 

coordingly he left Edinburgh on the 6th of Maj', ITS?, on a 
tour tlirougli a countrj^ so much cek^brated in the rural song's of 
Scotland. He travelled on horseback, and was accomiianiedj 
during some part of liis jutu-ncy, by Mr. Ainslie, now writer to 
the signet, agentlenian who enjoyed much of his friendship and 
of his confidence. Of this tour a joiu-nal remains, which, however, 
contains only occRsional remarks on the scenery, and which is 
chief!}'- occupied with an account of the author's ditlerent 
stages, and with his observations on the various charncters to 
whom he was intrvKluced. In the course of this toiir lie visited 
Mr. Ainslie of Berrywell, the father of his companion ; jMr. 
Brydone, the celebrated traveller, to whom he can-ied a letter of 
introduction from Mr. Mackenzie ; the Rev. Dr. Somerville of 
Jedlnirgh, the historian; Mr. and JNIrs. Scott of Wauchopc ; 
Dr. Elliot, :i physician, retired to a romantic spot on the banks 
of the Iioole ; Sir Alexander Don ; Sir James Plall of Dunglass; 
and a variety of other respectable characters. Everywhere the 
fame of the poet had spread before him, and everywhere he 
received the most hospitable and fiattenng attentions. At .Jed 
burgh he continued several days, and was honoured by the 
magistrates with the freedom of their lx)rough. The following 
may servo as a specimen of this tour, which the perpetual 
reference to living characters prevents us giving at large : — 

" Saturday, Mai/ 6ih. Left Edinburgh — Lammer-muir-hills, 
miserably dreary in general, but at times very picturesque. 

'* Lanson-edge, a glorious view of the Merse. Keach Beny- 
well. * # * The family meeting with my 

compagnon de voyage, very charming; particularly the 
sister. # # » 

" Sunday. Went to Church at Dunse. Heard Dr. 
Bowmaker. 

'' Jlondny. Coldstream — glorious river Tweed— clear and 
majestic — fine bridge — dine at Coldstream with Mr. Ainslie 
and Mr. Foreman. Beat Mr. Foreman in a dispute about 
Voltaire. Drink tea at Len el- House with Mr. and Mrs. 
Brydone. * * * Reception extremely flattering. 
Sleep at Coldstream. 

" Tuesday. Breakfast at Kelso — changing situation of the 
town — fine brid.^e over the Tweed. Enchanting views and 
prospects on both sides of the river, especially on the Scotch 
side * # # Visit Roxburgh Palace — fine situation 
of it. Ruins of Roxburgh Castle — a holly-bush growing where 
Tames II. was accidentally killed by the bursting of a cajmoo. 
A small old religious ruin, and a fine old garden, planted by the 
rehgious, rooted out and destroyed by a Hottentot, a mditr$ 
d'hotel of the duke's — climate and soil of Berwickshire, and 
even Roxburghshire, superior to A}Tshire — bad roads — tunup 
and sheep husbandry, their great inprovements. * * * 
Low markets, consequently low lands — magnificence of farmers 
and fanai-houses. Come up the Teviot, anduD tlie Jed to Jed- 
bm-gh to lie, and so wish myself good-night. 

" Wednesday. Breakfast with Mr. Fair. * * » « 
Charming romantic situation of Jedbm-gh, with gardens and 



/•a LIPE OF BUE3f8. 

orcliai'ds, intermingled among the ho'^Ges and the ruins of a 
once magnificent cathedral. AM tha towns here have the 
appearance of old rnde grandeur, but extremely idle. Jed, a 
fine romantic little river. Dint;d with Captain -Kutherfoid, 
* * * return to Jedburgh. "vValk up the Jed vath some 
ladies to be shown Love-lane, and Blackburn, two fdiry scenes. 
Introduced to Mr. Potts, writer, and to Air. Somcivillc, tlie 
clergyman of the parish, a man and a gentleman, but sadly 
addicted to punning. 

''Jedburgh, Saturday. Was presented by the magistrates 
with the freedom of tlie town. 

" Took farewell of Jedburgh witii some melancliolv sensations. 

" Monday, May 14i/t, Kelso, Uine with the laimers' club — 
all gentlemen talking of high matters — each of thcin keeps a 
hunter from £30 te £50 value, and attends the fox-hunting cbib 
in the county. Go out with Mr. Ker, one of the club, and a 
friend of Mr. Ainslie's, to sleep. In his mind and manners, Mr. 
Ker is astonishingly like my dear old friend Robert Muir—ov ery 
thing in his house elegant. He oilers to accompany me in xay 
English tour. 

" Tuesday. Dine v^dtb Sir Alexander Don — a very vi'et day. 
* «i * Sleep at Mr. Ker's again, and set out next day for 
Melrose — visit Dryburgh, a fine old ruined abbey, b3'^ the way. 
Cross the Leader, and conie up the Tweed to Melrose. Dine 
there, and visit that far-famed glorious ruin — come to Selkirk 
up the banks of Ettrick. The whole country hereabouts, both 
on the TAveed and Ettrick, rcmarkalilj' stony." 

Having spent three weeks exploring this interesting scenery, 
Burns crossed over into Northumberland. Mr. Ker and Mr. 
Hood, two gentlemen with whom he had become acquainted in 
the course of his tour, accompanied him. He visited Alnwick 
Castle, the princely seat of the Duke of Northumberland ; the 
Hermitage and Old Castle of Warkworth ; Morpeth and New- 
castle. In this last town he spent two days, and then proceeded 
to the south-west, by Hcxam and Wardrue, to Carlisle. After 
spending a day at Carlisle with his frierid Mr. Mitchel, he 
returned into Scotland, and at Annan his journal terminates 
abruptly. 

Of the various persons with whom he became acquainted in 
the course of thisjourney, he has, in general, given some account, 
and almost always a favoui-able one. That on the banks of the 
Tweed, and of the Teviot, our bard should find njanphs that 
were beautiful, is what might be confidently presumed. Two 
of these are particularly described in hisjouruah But it does 
not appear that the scenery, or its inhabitants, produced any 
eflbrt of hig muse, as was to have been wished and expected. 
From Annan, Burns proceeded to Dumfries, and thence through 
Sanquhar, to Mossgiel, near Mauchline, in Ayrshire, where he 
arrived about the 8th of June, 1787, after a long absence of six 
busy and eventfid months. It will easily be conceived with 
what pleasure and pride he was received by his motlier, his bro- 
thers, and sisters. He had left them poor and comparatively 
fi-iendless he returned to them high in public estimation, and 



THK DIABT. 73 

ea?) in his circumstances. He returned to them unchanged in 
his ardent affections, and ready to share with them to the 
uttermost farthing, the pittance that fortune had hestovved. 

Ilavini; remained with them a few days, he i)roceeded again 
to Ediiihurgh, and immediately set out on a journey to the 
Highlands. Of this tour no particulars have been found among 
his manuscripts. A letter to his friend j\Ir. AinsHe, dated 
AiTochar, hy Lochlong, June 28, 1787, commences as 
follows : — 

" I write you this on ni}' tour through a country where 
savage streams tumble over savage mountains, thinly overspread 
with savage flocks, which starvingly support as savsige inha- 
bitants. My last stage was Inverar^' — to-morrow night's stage 
Dumbarton. I ought sooner to have answered your kind letter 
but you know I am a man of many sins." 

Part of a letter from oiu- bard to a ft-iend, giving some account 
of his journey, has been communicated to the editor. The 
reader \vill be amused with the following extract : — 

" On our return, at a Highland gentleman's hospitable man- 
sion, we fell in ^\'ith a merry party, and danced till the ladies 
left us, at three in the morning. Our dancing was none of *he 
French or English insipid formal movements ; The ladle.-; sang 
Scotch songs like angels, at intervals : then we flew at Bab at 
the heioster, Tullochgorxim, Loch JErroch side, &c., hke midges 
sporting in the mottie sun, or craws prognosticating a storm in 
a hairst day. When the dear lassies left us, we ranged round 
the bowl till the good-fellow hour of six ; except a few minutes 
that we went out to pay our devotions to the glorioius lamp of 
daj' peering over the towering top of Benlomond. We all 
kneeled ; our worthy landlord's son held the bowl, each man a 
full glass in his hand ; and I, as priest, repeated some rhyming 
nonsense, like Thomas-a-Rhymer's prophecies, I suppose. After 
a small refreshment of the gifts of Somnus, we proceeded to 
spend the day on Lochlomond, and reached Dumbarton in the 
evening. We dined at another good fellow's house, and con- 
sequently pushed the bottle ; when we went out to mount our 
horses, we found ourselves ' No vera fou but gaylie yet.' My 
two friends and I rode soberly down the Ix>ch side, till by came 
a Highlandman at a gallop, on a tolerably good horse, but which 
had never known the ornaments of iron or leather. We scorned 
to be out-galloped by a Highlandman, so oft* we started, whip 
and spur. My companions, though seemingly gaily 'mounted, 
fell sadly astern ; but my old mare, Jenny Geddes, one of the 
Rosinante family, she strained past the Highlandman in spite 
of all his efforts, with the hair-halter : just as 1 was passing him, 
Donald wheeled his horse, as if to cross before me to mar my 
progress, when down came his horse, and threw his breekless 
rider in a dipt hedge ; and down came Jenny Geddes over ail, 
and my hardship between her and the Highlandman's horse. 
Jenny Geddes trode over me with such cautious reverence, that 
matters were not so bad as might well have been expected; so I 
came off" with a few cuts and bruises, and a thorough resolution 
to be a pattern of sobriety for the future. 

H 



74 



LIPE OF BUKNS, 



**I have yet fixed on nothing with respect to the serious 
business of hfe. I am, just as usual, a rliy ming, mason-making, 
raking, aimless, idle fallow. However, I shall somewhere have 
a farm soon. I w«* gonig to say, a wife too ; but that must 
never be my blessed lot. I am but a younger son of the house 
of Parnassus, and, like other younger sons of great faniihes, I 
may intrigue, if I choose to run all risks, but must not marry. 

" I am afraid I have almost ruined one source, the principal 
one indeed, of mj' former happiness — that eternal propensity I 
always had to fall in love. My heart no more glows with feverish 
rapture. I have no paradisiacal evening interviews stolen from 
the restless cares and prying inliabitants of this weary world. 
I have only. * * * * This last is one of yom- distant 
acquaintance, has a fine figure and elegant manners, and in the 
train of some great folks whom you know, has seen the politest 
quarters in Em-ope. I do like her a good deal ; but what piques 
me is her conduct at the commencement of our acquaintance. I 

frequently visited her when I was in , and after passing 

regularly the intermediate degrees between the distant formal 
bow and the famihar grasp round the waist, I ventured in my 
careless way, to talk of friendship in rather ambiguous terms ; 

and, after hor return to , I wi-ote to her in the same style. 

IVliss, construing my words farther I suppose than I intended, 
flew oft'in a tangent of female dignity and reserve, like a moun- 
tain lark in an April morning ; and wrote me an answer which 
measured me out very completel}' what an immense way I had 
to travel before I could reach tlie climate of her favour. But I 
am an old hiavk at the sport ; and wrote her such a cool, deliberate 
prudent reply as broutjht my bird from her aerial towcrings 
pop down at my foot hke cotporal Trim's hat. 

" As for the rest of u-y acts and my wars, and all my wise 
sayings, and ;vhy my mare was called Jenny Greddes, they shall 
be recorded in a few weeks hence, at Linlithgow, in the chronicles 
of your memory, by 

"Robert Burns." 

Prom this jom-ney Burns returned to his friends in Ayrshire, 
with whom he epenl the mOnth of July, renewing his friendships, 
and Gxtendiag his acqcf-intance throughout the country, where 
he was now very genei alJy known and admired. In August he 
again visited Edinbm-gh. whence he undertook another journey 
towards the middle of this month, in company with Mr. M. 
Adair, now Dr. Aduir, of JIarrowgate, of which this gentleman 
has favoured us \nth tha following account : — 

Burns and I left Edinburgh together in August, 1787. We 
rode by Linlithgow and Carron, to Stirling. We visited the 
iron works at Carron, with which the poet was forcibly struck. 
The resemblance between that place and its inhabitants to the 
cave of the Cyclops, which must have occurred to every clas- 
Bioal reader, presented itself to Burns. At Stirhng the prospects 
from the castle strongly interested him ; in a former visit to 
which, his national feehngs had been powerfully excited by the 
ruinous and roofless state of the hall in which the Scottish 



BURNS AND NICOL. 76 

parliamcnis hnfl froqnfintl? been held. His indignation had 
vented itself in some imprudent, but not unpoetical lines, which 
had given niudi ofleuce, and which he took this opportunity of 
erasing, by breaking the pane of the window at the inn on which 
they wore written. 

" At Stirling we met with a company of travellers from Edin- 
burgh, among whom was a chai'acter in manj- respects congenial 
with that of Burns. This was Nicol, one of the teachers of the 
High Grammar-School at Edinburgh— the same wit and power " 
of conver.sation, the same fondness for convivial society, and 
thoughtlessness of to-morrow, characterised both. JacoJjitical 
principles in pohtics were common to both of thorn ; and these 
have been suspected, since the revolution of France, to have 
given place in each to opinions apparently opposite. I regiet 
that I have preserved no memorabilia of their conversation, 
either on tliis or on other occasions, when I happened to meet 
them together. Many songs were sung, which I mention for 
the sake of observing, that when Burns was called in his turn, 
he was accustomed, instead of singing, to recite one or other of 
his own shorter poems, with a tone and emphasis which, though 
not correct or harmonious, were impressive and pathetic. This 
he did on the i)"csent occasion. 

"From Stirling we went next morning through the romantic 
and fertile vale of Devon to Ilarvieston, in Clackmannanshire, 
then inhabited by IMrs. Hamilton, with the younger part of 
whose famliy Burns had been previously acquainted. He intro- 
duced me to the family, and there was fonned my iirst acquaint- 
ance with Mrs. Hamilton's eldest daughter, to whom I have 
been married for nine years. Thus was I indebted to I3urns for 
a connection from •which I have derived, and expect farther to 
derive, much happiness. 

" During a residence of about ten days at Harvieston, we 
made excursions to visit various parts of the sm-rounding sce- 
nery, inferior to none in Scotland in beauty, sublimity, and 
romantic interest : particularly Castle Campell, the ancient seat 
of the family of Argyle ; and the famous cataract of the Devon, 
called the Caldron Linn ; and the Rumbling Bridge, a single 
broad arch, thrown by the Devil, if tradition is to be beheved, 
across the river, at about the height of a hundred feet above its 
bed. I am surprised that none of these scenes should have called 
forth an exertion of Burns's muse. But I doubt if he had much 
taste for the picturesque. I well remember, that the ladies at 
Harvieston, who accompanied us on this jaunt, expressed their 
disappointment at his not expresssing, in more glowing and 
fervid language, his impressions of the Caldron Linn scene, cer- 
tainly highly sublime, and somewhat horrible. 

_ " A visit to Mrs. Bruce, of Clackmannan, a Indy above 
ninety, the lineal descendant of that race wliich gave the Scottish 
throne its brightest ornament, interested his feeUngs more pow- 
erfully. The venerable dame, with characteristical dignity, 
informed me, on mx observing that I believed she was descended 
from the family of Koberfc Bruce, that Robert Bruce was sprung 
from her family. Though almost deprived of speech by a 



76 lilPE OF BUBNS. 

paralytic affection, she preserved her hospitality aucl urbauity. 
She was iu possession of the hero's helmet and two-handed sword, 
with which she conferred on Burns and myself the honour ol 
knighthood, remarking, that she had a better right to confer 
that title than some people. * # * * You will, 
of course, conclude, that the old lady's political tenets were as 
Jacobitical as the poet's, a conformity which. contributed not a 
"tittle to the cordiality of our reception and cntertaiiidticnt. She 
gave as her first toast after dinner, Awci Uncos, or Away with 
the Strangers. Who these strangers were j-ou will readily under- 
stand. Mrs. A. corrects me by saying it should be Hooi, or 
Sooi Uncos, a sound used by shepherds to direct their dogs to 
drive away the sheep. 

" We returned to Edinburgh by Kinross (on the shore of 
Lochleven,) and Queensferry. I am inclined to think Burns 
knew nothing of poor Micliael Bruce, who was then alive at 
Kinross, or had died there a short while before. A meeting 
between the bards, or a visit to the deserted cottage and early 
grave of poor Bruce, would have been highly interesting. 

" At Dunfermline we visited the ruined abbey and the abbey- 
church, no\v consecrated to Presbyterian worship. Here I 
mounted the cutti/ stool, or stool of repentance, assuming the 
character of a penitent for fornication ; while Burns from the 
pulpit addressed to me a ludicrous reproof and exhortation, 
parodied from that which had been delivered to himself in 
Ayrshire, where he had, as he assured me, once been one ol 
seven who mounted the seat of shame together. 

" In the churchyard two broad tlag-stones marked the grave 
of Robert Bruce, for whose memory Burns had more than com- 
mon veneration. Pie knelt and kissed the stone with sacred 
fervour, and heartily {suus ut mos erat) execrated the worse than 
Gothic neglect of the first of Scottish heroes." 

The surprise expressed by Dr. Adair, in his excellent letter, 
that the romantic scenery of the Devon should have failed to 
call forth any exertion of the poet's muse, is not in its nature 
singular ; and the disappointment felt at his not expressing in 
more glowing language his emotions on the sight of the famous 
ca,taract of that river is similar to what was felt by the friends 
of Burns on other occasions of the same natiu-e. Yet the infer- 
ence that Dr. Adair seems inclined to draw from it, that he had 
little taste for the picturesque, might be questioned, even if it 
stood uncontroverted by other evidence. The muse of Burns 
was in a high degree capricious ; she came uncalled, and often 
refused to attend at his bidding. Of all the numerous subjects 
suggested to him by his friends and correspondents, there is 
scarcely one that he adopted. The vei'y expectation that a 
particular occasion would excite the energies of fancy, if com- 
ramicated to Burns, seemed in him, as in other poets, destructive 
of the effect expected. Hence perhaps may be explained, why 
the banks of the Devon and of the Tweed form no part of the 
subjects of his song. 

A similar train of reasoning may perhaps explain the want 
of emotion with wdiich he viewed the Caldron Linn. Certainly 



«UKxs AND NICOL. 



77 



there are no affections of the mind more deadened by tl\e influ- 
ence of previous expectation than those arising from the sij,^htof 
natural objects, and more especially of olyccts of grandeur. 
Minute descriptions of scenes of a sublime nature should never 
be given to those who are about to view them, particularly if they 
arc persons of great strength and sensibility of imagination, 
Language seldom or never conveys an adequate idea of such 
objects, but in the mind of a great poet it may excite a picture 
tliat far trinscends them. The imagination of l?urns might 
form a cataract, in comparison with which the Caldron Linn 
should seem the purling of a rill, and even the mighty Falls of 
Kiagara a humble cascade. 

Whether these suggestions may assist in explaining our bard's 
deticiency of impression on the occasion referred to, or wlietber 
it ought rather to be imputed to some pre-occupation, or indis- 
position of mind we presume not to decide : but that he was in 
general feehngly alive to the beautiful or sublime in scenery, 
may be supported by irresistible evidence. It is true this plea- 
sure was greatly heightened in his mind, as might be expected, 
when combined with moral emotions of a kind with which it 
happily unites. Th it under this association Burns contemplated 
the scenery of the Devon with the eye of a genuine poet, the 
following lines writi en at this very period may bear witness :— 



ON A YOUNG LADT, RESIDING ON THE BANKS OF THE 
SMALL KIVER DEVON, CLACKMANNANSHIRE, BUT WHOSE 
INfANT TEARS WERE SPENT IN AYRSHIRE. 

How pleasant the banks of the clear, winding Devon 

With green-spreachng biishcs and flowers blooming fair ; 
But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon, 
Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. 
Mild be the suu on this sweet blushing flower, 

In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew ! 
And gentle the fall of the soft venial shower. 

That steals on the evening each leaf to renew. 
Oh spare the dear blossom, j-e orient breezes, 

With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn ! 
And far be thou distant, thou reptile, that seizes 

The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn ! 
Let Bom-bon exult in his gay gilded lilies, 

And England, triumphant, display her proud rose • 
A fairer than either adorns the green vallies 

AVliere Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows ! " 

The difterent journics already mentioned did not satisfy tlie 
curiosity of Ihirns, About the beginning of September, he 
again set out from Edinburgh en n niore axtcnded tour to the 
Higldands, in company with Mr. Nicol, witb whom he had now 

n3 



y3 LiFJfi ^s BUBirs. 

contracted a particular intimacy, which lasted during there 
mainder of his life. Mr. Nicol was of Dumfriesshire, of a de- 
cent equally humble with our poet. Like him he rose by the 
strength of his talents, and fell by the strength of his passions. 
He died in thesummer of 1797. Having received the elements 
of a classical instruction at his parish school, Mr. Nicol made a 
very rapid and singular proficiency ; and by early undertaking 
the office of an instructor himself, he acquired the means of 
entering himself at the University of Edinburgh. There he was 
first a student of theology, then a student of medicine, and 
afterwai'ds employed in the assistance and instruction of gra- 
duates in medicine, in those parts of their exercises in whici 
the Latin language is employed. In this situation he was the 
contemporary and rival of the celebrated Dr. Brown, whom he 
resembled in the particulars of his history, as well as in the lead- 
ing features of his character. The office of assistant-teacher in 
the High School being vacant, it was as usual filled up by com- 
petition; and in the face of some prejudices, and perhaps of some 
well-founded objections, Mr. Nicol, by superior learning, car 
ried it from all the other candidates. This office he filled at the 
period of which we speak. 

It is to be lamented, than an acquaintance with the writers 
of Greece and Rome does not alwaj's supply an original want of 
taste and correctness in manners and conduct ; and where it fails 
of this effect, it sometimes inflames the native pride of temper 
which treats with disdain those delicacies in which it has not 
learnt to excel. It was thus with the fellow-traveller of Burns. 
Formed bj"- natm-e in a model of great strength, neither his per- 
son nor his manners had any tinctiu'e of taste or elegance : and 
his coarseness was not compensated by that romantic sensibility, 
and those towering flights of imagination, which distinguished 
the conversation of Burns, in the l.^laze of whose genius all the 
deficiencies of his manners were absorbed and disappeared. 

Mr. Nicol and our poet travelled in a post-chaise, which they 
engaged for the journey ; and passing througli the heart of the 
Highlands, stretched northwards, about ten miles beyond Inver- 
ness. There they bent their course eastward, across the island, 
and returned by the shore of the German sea to Edinburgh. In 
the covu-se of this tour, some jiarticulars of which wiU be found 
in a letter of our bard, they visited a number of remarkable 
scenes, and the imagination of Burns \^■as constantly excited by 
the wild and sublime scenery through whicb he passed. Of this 
several proofs may be found in the poems formerly printed. Of 
the history of one of these poems, the Humble Petition of Bruar 
"Water, and of the bard's visit to Atholo-houso, some particulars 
have been given ; and by the favour of Mr. Walker, of Perth 
then residing in the family of the Duke of At hole, we are ena- 
bled to give the following additional account : — 

" On reaching Blair, he sent me notice of his an-ival, (as I 
liad been previously acquainted with him,) and I hastened to 
meet him at the inn. The Duke, to whom he brought a letter 
of introduction, was from home ;.but the Duchess, being informed 
rf his ai'rival, gave him an in vitation to sup and sleep at Athole- 



BUENS LEAVES G0Ill;ON CASTLE. 79 

hoiise. Ho acce|iK:c(Mhe invitation ; but as the liour of supper 
was at some flistuuce, beg<,^ed I would in the interval be his guide 
through the grounds, it was already growing dark ; 3 et the 
softened though taint and uncertain view of their' beauties, which 
the moonlight ailorded us, seemed exactly suited to the taste of 
his feelings at the time. 1 liad often, like others, experienced 
the pleivsures which arise from the sul)lime or elegant land- 
scape, but I never saw those feeUngs so intense as in Burns. 
When we reached a rustic hut on the river Tilt, where it was 
overhung by a woody precipice, from which there is a noble 
waterfall, he threw himself on the heathy seat, and gave himself 
up to a tender, abstracted, and voluptuous enthusiasm of ima- 
gination. 1 camiot help thinking that it might have been here 
that he couceived the idea of the following lines, which he after- 
wards introduced into his poem on Bruar Water, when only 
fancying such a combination of objects as were now present to 
bis eye. 

' Or by the reaper's nightly beam. 

Mild, chequering through the trees, 
Have to my darkly-dashing stream. 

Hoarse swelling on the breeze.' 

It was with inuch difficulty I prevailed on him to quit this 
spot, and to be introduced in proper time to supper. 

" My cm-iosity was great to see how he would conduct himself 
in company so different from what he had been accustomed to. 
His manner was unembarrassed, plain, and tirm. He appeared 
to have complete reliance on his own native good S8n>-e for 
directing his behaviour. He seemed at once to perceive and to 
appreciate what was due to the company and to himself, and 
never to forget a proper respect for the separate species of dig- 
nity belonging to each. He did not arrojjate conversation, but, 
vrhen led into it, he spoke with ease, propriety, and maiiliucss.. 
He tried to exert his abilities, because he knew it was ability 
alone that gave bim a title to be there. The Duke's fine young 
family attracted much of his admiration ; he drank their healths 
as honest men and bonnie lasses,^ an idea which was much 
applauded by the company, and with which he has very felici- 
tously closed his poem. 

" Next day I took a ride with him through some of the most 
romantic part of that neighbour hood, and was highly gratitied 
by his conversation. As a specimen of his happiness of concep- 
tion and strength of expression, I will mention a remark which 
he made on his fellow traveller, who was walking at the time a 
few paces before us. He was a man of a robust but clumsy per- 
son ; and whUe Burns was expressing to me the value he entcF- 
tained for him on account of his vigorous talents, although they 
were clouded at times hy coars^vitAfe of manners ; ' h- short,' he 
added, ' his mind is hke his bcuy— he has a confounded strou? 
in-kneed sort of a soul.' ^ 

" Much attention was paid to Bums both before and after the 
Duke's return, of which he was perfectly sensible, without being 
vain : and at his departm-e I recommended to him, as the mosi 



80 I.I:PE op BUBK8. 

appropriate return lie could make, to w^ite some descripti\e 
verses on any of the scenes with which he had been so mucH 
dehghted. After leaving Blair, he, by the Duke's advice, visited 
the Falls of Bruar, and in a lew days I received a letter frCra 
Inverness, with the verses enclosed. 

It appears that the impression made by our poet on tlie noble 
family of Athole, was in a high degree favourable; it is 
certain he was charmed with the reception he leceivcd from 
them, and he often mentioned the two days he spent at Athole- 
house as among the happiest of his life. He was warmly invited 
to prolong his stay, but sacrificed his inchnatiou.^ to his engage- 
ment with" Mr. Nicol ; which is the more to be regretted, as he 
would otherwise have been introduced to Mr.. Duudas (then 
daily expected on a visit to the Duke), a circumstance that might 
have had a favourable influence on Bums's future fortunes. At 
Atliole-house he met, for the first time, Hiir. Graham of Kntry, 
to whom he was afterwards indebted for his otfice in the 
Excise. 

The letters and poems which he addi-essed to Mr. Graham 
-.ear testimony to his sensibility, and juslify the supposition, 
that he would not have been deficient in jjratitude had he been 
elevated to a situation better suited to his disposition and to his 
talents. 

A few days after leaving Blair of Athole, our poet and a\k 
fellow-traveller arrived at Fochabers. In the course of th« 
preceding winter. Burns had been introduced to the Duchess of 
Gordon at Edinburgh, and presuming on this acquaintance, he 
proceeded to Gordon Castle, leaving Mr. Nicol at the inn in the 
village. At the castle our poet was received with the utmost 
hospitality and kindness, and the I'amily being about to sit flown 
to dinner, he was invited to take his place at the table as a 
matter of course. This imatation he accepted, and after drink- 
..ing a few glasses of wine, he rose up, and proposed to withdraw. 
On being pressed to stay, he mentioned for the first time his 
engagement wdth his fellow-traveller ; and his noble host ofl'ering 
to send Ids servant to conduct Mr. Nicol to the castle, Burns 
insisted on undertaking that otfice himself. He was, however, ac- 
companied by a gentleman, a particular acquaintance of tlie duke, 
by W'hom the invitation was dehvered in all the forms^of polite- 
ness. The invitation came too late; the pride of Nicol was 
inflamed into a high degree of passion, by the neglect which he 
had already suffered. He had ordered the horses to be put to 
the carriage, being determined to proceed on his journey idone ; 
and they found him parading the streets of Fochabers, before 
the door of the inn, venting his anger on the postillion, for the 
slowness with which he obeyed his commands. As no explana- 
tion nor entreaty could change the pm-pose of his fellow-tra- 
veller, our poet was reduced to the necessity of separating ft-om 
him entirely, or of instantly proceeding with him' on then- jour- 
ney. He chose tiie last of these alternatives ; and seating hina- 
self beside Nicol tx\ the post-chaise, with mortification and regret, 
he turned hia bacK on Gordon Castle, where he had promised 
liiuiself some happy days. Sensible, however ol' the great kind- 



BURNS LEAVES GORDON CASTLE. 81 

DOSS of the noble family, he made the best return in his power, 
by the followini,' poem: — 

" Streams that glide in orient plains, 
Never bound by winter's chains 

Glowing here on golden sands. 
There commix'd with foulest stains 

Fi"om t^'ranny's empurpled bands j 
These, their richly-gleaming waves, 
I leave to tyrants and their slaves ; 
Give me the stream that sweetly laves 

The banks by Castle Gordon. 

Spicy forests, ever gay, 
Shading from the burning ray 

Helpless wretches sold to toi^ 
Or the ruthless native's way, 

Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil: 
Woods that ever verdant wave, 
I leave the tyrant and the slave; 
Give me the groves that lofty brave 

The storms by Castle Gordon. 

Wildly here, without control, 
Natm-e reigns, and rules the whole; 

Li that sober pensive mood 
Dearest to the feeUng soul, 

She plants the forest, pours the flood 
Life's poor day I'll musnig rave. 
And find at night a sheltering cave, 
Where waters flow and wild woods wave. 

By bonnie Castle Gordon. 

Burns remained at Edinburgh during the greater part of the 
winter of 1787-8, and again entered into the society and dissipa- 
tion of that metropolis. It appears that on the ^Ist December 
he attended a meetmg to celebrate the birth-day of the hneal 
descenda,nt of the Scottish race of kings, the late unfortunate 
Prince Charles Edward. Whatever might have been the wish 
or purpose of the original instjtutors of this annual meeting, 
there is no reason to suppose that the gentlemen of whom it was 
at tins time composed, were not perfectly loyal to the king on 
the throne. It is not to be conceived that tliey entertained any 
hope of, any wish for, the restoration of the House of Stuart; 
but over their sparkhng ^\■ine they indulged the generous feelings 
which the recollection of llillen greatness is calculated to inspire, 
and commemorated the heroic valour which strove to sustain it 
in vain — valour worthy of a nobler cause, and a happier fortune. 



oa LIPB OJP BUBNS. 

On this occasion our bard took upon himself the office of a poet- 
laureate, and produced an ode, which, though deficient in the 
couipHcated rhythm and poHshed versification that cucL ojIv.- 
positions require, might on a fair competition, where eueigy of 
feehng and of expression were alone in question, hav ewox; hiw 
butt of Malmsey from the real laureate of that day. 
The following extracts may serve as a specimen :— 

* # # « 

" False flatterer, Hope, away ! 
Nor think to lure us as in days of yore : 

We solemnise this sorrowing natal day, 
To prove our loyal truth^-we can no more; 
And owning heaven's mysterious sway, 
Submissive low, adore. 

Ye honoured mighty dead 
Who nobly perished in the glorious cause. 
Your king, your country, and her laws ! 

From great Dundee, who smiling victory led. 
And fell a martyr in her arms, 
(What hearrt of northern ice but warms ?) 

To bold Balmerino's undying name, 
Wliose soul of fire, lighted at heaven's high 

flame, 
Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes 
claim. 

Nor unrevenged your fate shall be, 

It oniy lags the fatal hour. 
Yom" blood shall, with incessant cry, 

Awake at last th' unsparing power. 
As from the cliff, with thundering course, 

The snowy ruin smokes along. 
With doubhng speed and gathering force. 

Till deep it crashing whelms the cottage iu 
the vale ! 

So vengeance " * * 

In relating the incidents of our poet's life in Edinburgh, -v/n 
ought to have mentioned the sentiments of respect and sympa- 
thy with which he traced out tho grave of his prederassor 
Fergusson, over whose ashes, ic the Caimongate churchyard, ho 
obtaintid leave to erect a humble monument, which will be 
viewed by reflecting minds with no common interest, and which 
will awake in the bosom of kindred genius many a high emetics.. 
Neither should we pass over the continued friendship he 
experienced fi-om a poet then Uving, th: amiable and accom^ 
plished Blacklock. To his encouraging advice it was owing 



AVoWhU MAIilUAGE OK KUUNS. »3 

(,as already appeared,) that Burns, instead of rraigratini,^ to 
the West Indies, repaired to Edinburgh. He received him there 
with all the ardour of aiTectionate admiration — he eagerly 
introduced him to tlie respectable circle of his friends — he con- 
sulted his interest — he blazoned his fame — he lavished upon 
him all the kindness of a generous and feeling heart, int;) which 
nothing selfish or envious ever found admittance. Among the 
friends to whom he introduced Burns, wa.s Mr. Ramsay of 
OchtertjTC, to whom our poet paid a visit in the autumn of 
(1787) October, at his delightiul retirement in the neighbourhood 
of Stirling, and on the banks of the Teith. Of this visit we 
have the following particulars : — ■ 

" I have been in the companj' of many men of genius " says 
Mr. Ramsay, " some of them poets ; but never witnessed such 
flashes of intellectual brightness as from him, the impulse of the 
moment, sparks of celestial fire ! I never was more delighted, 
therefore, than witli his company for two days, tete-a-tote. In 
a mixed company I should have made little of him ; for, "!n the 
gamester's phrase, he did not always know when to play off and 
when to play on. * * * I uot only proposed to him the 
writing of a play similar to the Gentle Shepherd, qualem decet 
esse sororem, but Scottish Georgies, a subject which Thompson 
has by no means exhausted in his Seasons. What beautiful 
landscapes of rural life and manners miglit not have been 
expected from a pencil so faithful and forcible as his, which 
could have exhibited scenes as familiar and interesting as those 
in the Gentle Shepherd, which every one who knows our swains 
in their unadulterated state, instantly recognises as true to 
nature. But to have executed either of these plans, steadiness 
and abstraction from company were wanting, not talents. 
When I asked him whether the Edinburgh literati had mended 
his poems by their critcisms ; ' Sir,' said he, «* these gentlemen 
remind me of some spinsters in mj'^ country, who spin their 
thread so fine that it is neither fit for weft nor woof.' He said 
he had not changed a word, except one, to please Dr. Blair." 

Having now settled with his publisher, Mr. Creech, in Feb- 
ruary 1788, Burns found himself master of nearly, five hundred 
pounds, after discharging all his oxijonses. Two hundred pounds 
he immediately ?.dvanced to his 1)rotbcr Gilbert, who had taken 
upon himself the support of their aged mother, and was strug- 
gling with many ditliculties in the farm of Mossgiel. With the 
remainder of this sum, and some farther eventual profits from 
his poems, he determined on settling himself for life in the 
occupation of agriculture, and took from Mr. Miller of Dalswin- 
ton, the farm of Ellisland, on the banks of the river Nith, six 
miles above Dumfries, on which he entered at Wliit-Sunday, 
1788. Having been previously recommended to the Board of 
Excise, his name had been put on the list of candidates for the 
humble office of a ganger or exciseman ; and he immediately 
applied to acquiring the information necessary for filling that 
office, when the honourable board might judge it proper to 
employ him. He expected to be called into service in the 
district in which his farm was situated, and vainly hoped to 



84 LIFE OF BUBNS. 

unite with success tlie labours of the farmer with the duties o 
the exciseman. 

Wlien Burns had in this manner arranged liis plans for 
futurity, Iiis generous heart turned to the object of his most 
ardent attachment, and, listening to no considerations but those 
of honour and affection, he joined with her in a public declara- 
tion of maniagp, thus legalising their union, and rendering it 
permanent for hfe. • 

Before Burns was known in Edinburgh, a specimen of his 
poetry had recommended him to Mr. Miller of DaUvyinton. 
Understanding that he intended to resume the life of a farmer, 
Mr. Miller bad invited him, in the spring of 1787, to view his 
estate in Nithsdale, offering him at the same time the choice of 
any of his farms out of lease, at such a rent as Burns and his 
friends might judge proper. It was not in the nature of Burns 
to take an undue advantage of the liberality of Mr. Miller. lie 
proceeded in this business, however, with more than usual deli- 
beration. Having made choice of the farm of Ellisland, he 
employed two of his friends, skilled in the value of land, to 
examine it, and with their approbation, offered a rent to Mr. 
Miller, which was immediately accepted. It wns not convenient 
for Mrs. Burns to remove immediately from Ayrshire, and our 
poet therefore took up his residence alone at Ellisland, to prepare 
for the reception of his wife and children, who joined him 
tow^ards the end of the year. 

[Dr. Currie omits all allusion to the circumstances which led 
to a permanent union between Burns and his Jean. That the 
mind of the poet, notwithstanding all past irritation, and various 
entanglements with other beauties, was never altogetlicr ahen- 
ated from her, is evident ; but up to Jnne 1787, when he first 
retm'ned from Edinburgh to Mauchline, he certainl^'^ did not 
entertain any self-avowed notion of ever again renewing his 
acquaintance with her. It was in this state of his feehngs, that, 
one day, soon after his return from Edinburgh, when meeting 
some friends over a glass at John Dow's tavern, close to the 
residence of his once fondly-loved mistress, he chanced to encoun- 
ter her in the court beliind tlie inn, and was immediately 
inflamed with all his former affection. Their correspondence 
was renewed — was attended with its former results — and, 
towards the end of the year, when the poet was fixed helplessly 
,in Edinburgh by a bruised liinb, her shame becoming apparent 
"lo her parents, she was turned out of doors, and would have 
been utterly destitute, if she had not obtained shelter from a 
relation in the village of Ardrossan. Jean was once mere deli- 
vered of twins — girls — on the 3rd of March, 1788 : the infants 
died a few days after their birth. In a letter of that date to 
Mr. R. Ainslie, written from Mauchline, Burns says — " I found 
Jean banished, forlorn, destitute, andfriendless : I have reconciled 
her to her fate, and I have reconciled her to her mother." Soon 
after, he seems to have formed the resolution of overlooking al' 
dishonouring circumstances in her past historj', and making 
her really his own lor Hfe. On the 7th of April, we find Iul-i 
writing to Miss Chalmers, evidently with alhl^^ion to thieresoiu- 



AVOWKD M.VRTIIAGE OF BURNS. t/'i 

tion : — " I have lately made some sacrifices, for wliich, ww*'* 1 
Viva voce willf you to i)aiiit the situation and rccouui '.he 
circumstances, you would applaud me." And then, on tho^Oth, 
n a letter to Smith, we see the resohition has been virtually 
acted upon. " To let you a little into the secrets of my pericra- 
nium, there is, you must know, a certain clean-limbed, h>Aridsome, 
bewitching young hussej- of your acquaintance, to wh. ^ra I have 
lately given a matrimonial title to my corpus. * * I intend 
to present Mrs. Burns with a pinnted shawl, an art> .la of which 
I dare say you have variety : 'tis my first present t j her since 1 
irrevocably called her mine. * * Mrs. Burns ('tis only her 
private designation), presents her best compliB.,ents to you." 
H'^ tells Ainslie, May 26, that the title is nof avowed to the 
world — u sufficient legal proof of marriage ir Gcotland. Ulti- 
mately, on the 3rd of August, as we learn from uhe session books, 
the poet and Jean were openly married ; vhen Burns, being 
informed that it was customary for the brideFproom, in such cases, 
to bestow something on the poor of the vwish, gave a guinea 
for that purpose. The ceremony took plice in Cowl's tavern, 
nnsanctioned by the lady's father, who t dver, to the day of the 
poet's death, would treat him as a friend ; even Gavin Hamilton, 
from respect for the feelings of i-jxaour, decUned being, 
present. It was not till the ensuing \vinter that Mrs. Burns 
joined her husband at Ellisland — th(»- only child liobert follow- 
ing her in the subsequent spring.] 

The situation in which Burns now found himself was calculated 
to awaken reflection. The diflereu-1. (jteps he had of late taken 
were in their nature highly imp-^tant, and might be said to 
have, in some measure, fixed hia destiny. He had become a 
husband and a father ; he had oijgaged in the management of 
a considerable farm, a difficult aid laborious undertaking ; in 
his success the happiness of b's family was involved. It was 
time, therefore, to abandon tlu gaiety and dissipation of which 
he had been too much enamwared ; to ponder seriously on the 
past, and to form virtuous vesolutions respecting the future. 
'Ihatsuch was actually the stute of his mind, the following extract 
from his common-place book may bear witness : — 

"JElhdand, Simday, UtJi June, 1788. 

" This is now the third day that I have been in this country. 
* Lord, what is man ! ' What a bustling little bundle of pa-ssions, 
appetites, ideas, and fancies! And what a capricious kind of 
existence he has her 3! * * There is indeed an el&t where, 
v.' here, as Thompson sa^s, virtue sole survives. 

' Tell us, ye dead ; 
Will none oi /ou in pity disclose the s»?cret. 
What 'tis j^oa are, and we must shortly be; 

; A little tunc 

Will make us \\ase as you are, and as close.' 

" I am such a coward in life, so tired of the service, that I 
ould almost at any time, with Milton's Adam, * gladly laj 

I 



86 LIFE OP BUBIfS. 

me in my mother's lap, and be at peace.' But a wife and chil- 
dren bind me to struggle with the stream, 4fil\ some sudden 
squall shall overset the silly vessel, or, in the listless return oi 
years, its own craziness reduce it to a wreck. Farewell now to 
those giddy foUies, these varnished vices, which though half 
sanctified by the bewitching levity of wit and humour, are at 
best but thriftless idling with the precious current of existence ; 
nay, often poisoning the whole, that, like the plains of Jericho, 
the vjater is nought and the ground barren, and nothing short 
of a supernaturaUy gifted Elisha can ever after heal the evils. 

" Wedlock, the circumstance that buckles me hardest to care, 
if virtue and religion were to be anything with me but names, 
was what in a few seasons I must have resolved on ; in my 
present situation it was absolutely necessary. Humanity, 
generosity, honest pride of character, justice to mj^ own happi- 
ness in after life, so far as it could depend (which it surely will 
a great deal) on internal peace ; all these join their warmest 
suffrages, their most powerful solicitations, with a rooted attach- 
ment, to urge the step I have takeu. Nor have I any reason on 
her part to repent it. I can fancy how, but have never seen 
where, I could, have made a better choice. Come, then, let 
me act up to my favourite motto, that glorious passage in 
Young — 

' On reason build resolve, 
That column of true majesty in man ! * 

Under the impulse of these reflections. Burns immediately 
engaged in rebuilding the dwelling-house on his farm, which, in 
the state he found it, was inadequate to the accommodation of 
his family. On this occasion he himself resumed at times the 
occupation of a labourer, and found neither his strength nor his 
skill impaired. Pleased with survej-ing the grounds he was 
about to cultivate, and with the rearing of a building that should 
give shelter to his wife and children, and, as he fondly hoped, 
to his own grey hairs, sentiments of independence buoyed up 
his mind, pictures of domestic content and peace, rose on his 
imagination ; and a few days passed away, as he himself informs 
us, the most tranquU, if not the happiest, which he had ever 
experienced. 

It is to be lamented that at this critical period of his life, our 
poet was without the society of his v/ife and children. A great 
change had taken place in his situation ; his old habits were 
broken, and the new circumstances in which he was placed were 
calculated to give a new direction to his thoughts and conduct. 
But his application to the cares and labours of his farm was 
interrupted by several visits to his family in Ayrshire ; and as 
the distance was too great for a single day's journey, he generally 
spent a night at an inn on the road. On such occasions he 
sometimes fell into company, and forgot the resolutions he had 
formed. h\ & little while, temptation tissailcd him nearer 
home. 



BURNS IM THE EXCISE. 8? 

His fame naturally drew upon him the attention of his 
neighbours, iin(l%esoon furtned a general acquaintance in the 
district in which he lived. The publir voice had now been pro- 
nounced on the subject of his talents ; the reception he had met 
with in Edinburgh had given him the currency which fashion 
bestows; he had surmounted the prejudices arising from his 
humble birth, and he was received at the table of the gentlemen 
of Nithsdale with welcome, with kindness, and even with 
respect. Their social parties too often seduced him from his 
rustic Labours aud his rustic fare, overthrew the unsteady fabric 
of his resolutions, and inflamed those propensities which temper- 
ance might have weakened, and pradence ultimately suppressed. 
It was not long, therefore, before Burns began to view his farm 
with dislike and despondence, if not with disgust. 

Unfortunately, he had for several years looked to an office in 
the Excise as a certain means of UveUhood, should his other 
expectations fail. As has already been mentioned, he had been 
recommended to the Board of Excise, aud had received the 
instruction necessary for such a situation. He now applied to 
be employed ; and by the interest of Mr. Graham of Fintry, 
was appointed exciseman, or, as is vulgarly called, gauger, of 
the district in which he lived. His fann was after this in a 
great measure abandoned to servants, while he betook himself 
to the duties of his new appointment. 

He might, indeed, still be seen in the spring, directing his 
plough, a labour in which he excelled ; or with a white sheet, 
contaiumg his seed-corn, slung across his shoulders, striding 
with measured steps along his turucd-up furrows, and scattering 
the grain in the earth. But his farm no longer occupied the 
principal part of his care or thoughts. It was not at Ellislaud 
that he was now in general to be found. Mounted on horseback, 
this high-minded poet was pursuing the defaulters of the revenue 
among the hills and vales of Nithsdale, his roving eye wander- 
ing over the charms of nature, and muttering his wayward 
fancies as he moved along. 

" I had an adventinre with him in 1790," says Mr. Ramsey of 
Ochtertyre, in a letter to the editor, " when passing through 
Dumfriesshire, on a tour to the south, with Dr. Stewart of Luss. 
Seeing him pass quickly near Closeburn, I said to my companion, 
* That is Burns.' On coming to the inn the hostler told us he 
would be back in a few hours to grant permits ; that where he 
met with anything seizable he was no better than any other 
guager ; in everything else, that he was perfectly a gentleman. 
After leaving a note to be dehvered to him on his return, I pro- 
ceeded to his house, being curious to see his Jean, &c. I was 
much pleased with his uxor Sahina qualis, and the poet's 
modest mansion, so unlike the habitation of ordinary rustics. 
In the evening he suddenly bounced in upon us, and said, as he 
entered, * I come, to use the words of Shakspeare, stowed in 
haste.' In fact, he had ridden incredibly fast after receiving 
my note. We fell into conversation directly, and soon got into 
the mare magnum of poetry. He told me that he had now 
gotten a story for a drama, which he was to call Rob Maoque 



Be LIFE OP BUBKS. 

chan's Elshon, from a popt.Lar story of Robert Evuce being 
defeated on the water of Caern, when the heel ^ his boot having 
loosened in his fiight, he apphed to Robert Macquechan to tit 
it ; who, to make sure, ran his awl nine inches up the king's 
heel. We were now going on at a great rate, when 'Mv. S 
popped in liis head, Avhich put a stop to our discourse, which had 
occcrae very interesting. Yet in a Httle while it was resumed; 
and such was the force and versatility of the bard's genius, that 

he made the tears run down Mr. S 's cheeks, albeit unused 

to the poetic strain. * *' * * From that time we met no 
more, and I was grieved at the reports of him afterwards. Poor 
Burns ! we shall hardly ever see his like again. He was, in 
truth, a sort of comet in literature, irregular in its motions, 
which did not do good proportioned to the blaze of light which 
it displayed." 

In the summer of 1791, two English gentlemen, who had 
before met with him in Edinburgh, paid a visit to him at Ellis- 
land. On calling at the house they v/ere informed that he had 
walked out on the banks of the river ; and, dismounting ft-om 
their horses, they proceeded in search of him. On a rock that 
projected into the stream, they saw a man employed in angling, 
of a singular appearance. He had a cap made of fox's skin on 
his head, a loose great coat fixed round him by a belt, from 
which depended an enormous Plighland broadsword. It was 
Burns. He received them with great cordiality, and asked 
them to share his humble dinner — an invitation which they 
accepted. On the table they found boiled beef, with vegetables 
and barley broth, after the manner of Scotland, of which they 
partook heartily. After dinner the bard told them ingenuously 
that he had no V7ine to offer them, nothing better than Highland 
whisky, a bottle of v/hich ilrs. Burns set on the board. He 
produced at the same time his punch-bowl made of Inverary 
marble ; and mixing the spirit and water and sugar, filled their 
glasses and invited them to drink. The travellers were in haste, 
and, besides, the flavour of the whisky to tlieir stithron palate3 
was scarcely tolerable ; but the generous poet offered them hia 
best, and his ardent hospitality they found it impossible to 
resist. Burns was in his happiest mood, and the charms of his 
conversation were altogether fascinating. He ranged over a 
great variety of topics, illuminating whatever he touched. He 
related the tales of his infancy and his youth ; he recited some 
of the gayest and some of the tenderest of his poems ; in the 
wildest of his strains of mirth he threw in some touches of 
Tnelancholy, and spread around him the electric emotions of his 
powerful mind. The Highland whisky improved in its flavour , 
the marble bowl was again and again emptied and replenisliod ; 
the guests of our poet forgot the flight of time, and the dictates 
of prudence; at the hour of midnight they lost their way in 
returning to Dumfries, ar.d could scarcely distinguish it wheu 
assisted by the morning's dawn. 

Besides his duties in the Excise, and his social pleasures, other 
circumstances interfered with the attentioii t-f Bums t-o his farm. 
He engaged in the formation of a society for purchasing and 



BURNS IN THE EXCISE. S'J 

circulnting books umong th« farmors of his npighbourhood, of 
which he nndertooX the 'iiiinagfincnt ; and he occupied himself 
occasionally in composing songs for the musical work of Mr. 
J'obnson, then in the course of })ul)lication. These engagements, 
useful and lionourable in tliemselves, contributed, no doubt, 
to the abstraction of his thoughts from the business of iigri- 
culturc. 

The consequences may be easily imagined. Notwithstanding 
the uniform prudence and good management of Mrs. Burns, and 
though his rent was moderate and reasonable, our poet found it 
convenient, if not necessary, to resign his farni to Mr. Miller, 
after having occupied it three years and a half. His office in 
the Excise had originally produced about fifty poinids per annum. 
Having acquitted himself to the satisfaction of the board, he had 
been appointed to a new district, the emoluments of which arose 
to about seventy pounds per annum. Hoping to support him- 
self and his family on this humble income till promotion sliould 
reach him, he disposed of his stuck and of his crop on Elhsland 
by pubHc auction, and removed to a small house which he had 
taken in Dumfries, about the end of the year 1791. 

Hitherto Jjurns, though addicted to excess in social parties, 
had abstained ft-om the habitual use of strong liquors, ana his 
constitution had not suffered any pern\anent injury from the 
irregularities of his conduct. In Dumfries, temptations to the 
sill that so easily beset him continually presented themselves • 
and his irregularities grew by degrees into habits. These tempt- 
ations unhappily occurred during his engagements in the busi- 
ness of his office, as well as during his hours of relaxation ; and 
though he clearly foresaw the consequences of yielding to tliem, 
his appetites and sensations, which could not prevent the dictates 
of his judgment, finally triumphed over the powers of his will. 
Yet this victory was not olitained without many obstinate strug- 
gles, and at times temperance and virtue seemed to have 
obtained the mastery. Besides his engagements in the Ex-^ise, 
and the society into which they led, many circumstances con- 
tributed to the melanclu)ly fate of Burns. His great celebrity 
made him an object of interest and curiosity to strangers, and" 
few persons of cviltivhteii minds passed through Dumfnes without 
attempting to see our poet, and to enjoy the pleasure of bis con- 
\ersation. As he could not receive them under his own humble 
roof, these interviews parsed at the inns of the town, and often 
terminated in those excesses which Burns sometimes provoked, 
and was seldom able to resist. And among the inhabitants of 
Dumfries and its vicinity, there were never wanting persons to 
share lais social pleasures ; to lead or accompany hiin to the 
<-avern ; to partake in the wildest sallies of his wit ; to witness 
the strength and the degradation of his genius. 

Still, however, he cultivated the society of persons of taste 
and re&pcctabilit.\, and in their company could impose on iiimself 
the restraints of temperance and decorum. Nor was his muse 
dormant. In the four years which he hved at Dumfries, he pro- 
duced many of his beautiful lyrics, though it does not npji'jur 
that he artempted any poem of considerable length. l,»uring 

V 3 



90 



LIFE OF BUllISS. 



this time he made several excursions into the neighbouring 
couHtry, of one of which, through Galloway, an account is 
pros* rved in a letter of Mr. Syme, written soon after ; which, 
as it gives an animated pioture of him, by a correct and 
ni;i!stirly hand, we shall present to the reader. 

* I got Burns a grey Highland shelty to ride on. We dmed 
the first day, 27th July, 1793, at Glendenw^nes of Parton 
a beautifiil situation on the banks of the Dee. In the evening 
we walked out, and ascended a gentle eminence, from which we 
had as fine a view of Alpine scenery as can wcU be imagined. 
A delightful soft evening shewed all its wilder as well as its 
grander graces. Immediately opposite and within a mile of us, 
we saw Airds, a charming romantic place, where dwelt Low, 
the author of Mary tvcep no more for me. This was classical 
ground for Burns. He viewed ' the highest hill which rises o'er 
the source of Dee ; ' and would have staid till ' the passing 
spirit ' had appeared, had we not resolved to reach Kenmuve that 
night. We arrived as Mr. and Mrs. Gordon were sitting down 
to supper. 

" Here is a genuine baron's seat. The castle, an old building, 
stands on a large natural moat. In front, the river Ken winds 
for several miles through the most fertile and beautiful holm, 
till it expands into a lake twelve miles long, the banks of which, 
on the south, present a fine and soft landscape of green knolls, 
natural wood, and here and there a grey rock. On the north, 
tlie aspect is great, wild, and I may say, tremendous. In short, 
I can scarcely conceive a scene more terribly romantic than the 
3astle of Kenmure. Burns thinks so highly of it, that he medi- 
tates a description of it in poetry. Indeed, I believe he has 
begun the work. We spent three days with Mr. Gordon, whose 
polished hospitality is of an original and endearing kind. Mrs. 
Gordon's lap-dog. Echo, was dead. She would have an epitaph 
lor him. Several had been made. Burns was asked for one. 
This was setting Hercules to his distafl'. He disHked the sub- 
ject ; but, to please the lady, he would try. Here is what be 
produced : — 

" In wood and wild, ye warbling throng, 

Your heavy loss deplore ! 
Now half extinct your powers of song 

Sweet Echo is no more 

Ye jarring screeching things around. 

Scream your discordant joys ! 
Now half your din of tuneless song 

With Echo silent lies." 

" We left Kenmure and went to Gatehouse. I took him the 
moor road, where savage and desolate regions extended wide 
around. The sky was sympathetic with the wretchedness of 
the soil ; it became lowering and dark. The hollow winds 
sighed, the lightnings gleamed, the thunder rolled. The poet 



ST. MART B ISLE. 91 

enjoyed the awful scene ; he spoke not a word, but seemed wrapt 
in meditation. In a little while tlie rain began to fall ; it poured 
in Hoods upon us. For three hours did the wild elements 
rumble their beUyftd upon our defenceless heads. Oh! oh! 
^twitsfoul. We got utterly wet; and, to revenge ourselves, 
Burns insisted at Gatehouse on our getting utterly drunk. 

" From Gatehouse, we went next day to Kirkcudbright, 
through a tine country. But here I must tell you that Burns 
had got a i)air k^ jemmy boots for the journey, which had been 
thoroughly wet, and which had been dried in such manner that 
it was not possible to get them on again. The brawny poet 
tried force, and tore them to shreds. A whiiHing vexation of 
this sort is more trying to the temper than a serious calamity. 
We were going to St. Mary's Isle, the seat of the Earl of Sel- 
kirk, and the forlorn Burns was discomfited at the thought of 
his ruined boots. A sick stomach and a head-ache lent their 
aid, and the man of verse was quite accahle. I attempted to 
reason with him. Mercy on us! how he .did fume and rage! 
Nothing could reinstate him in temper. I tried various expe- 
dients, and at last hit on one that succeeded, I showed him the 
house of * * * * J across the bay of Wigton. Against 
* * # # ^ yr\^Y^ whom he was Oii'eiulcd, he expectorated his 
spleen, and regained a most agreeable temper. He was in a 
most epigrammatic humour indeed ! He afterwards fell on 
humbler game. There is one ***** whom he does 
not love. He had a passing blow at him. 

* When deceased, to the devil went down, 

'Twas nothing would serve him but Satan's own crown ; 
Thj' fool's head, quoth Satan, that crown shall wear never, 
1 grant thou'rt as wicked, but not quite so clever.' 

" Well, I am to bring you to Kirkcudbright along with our 
poet, without boots. I carried the torn ruins across my saddle 
in spite of his fulminations, and in contempt of appearances ; 
and, what is more. Lord Selkirk carried them in his coach to 
Dumfries. He insisted they were worth mending. 

" We reached Kirkcudbright about one o'clock. I had pro- 
mised' that we should dine with one of the first men in our 
country, J. Dalzell; but Burns was in a wild obstreperous 
humour, and swore he would not dine where he should be under 
the smallest. restraint. We prevailed, therefore, on Mr. Dalzell 
to dine with us at the inn, and had a very agreeable party. In 
the evening we set out for St. Mary's Isle. Robert had not 
absolutely regained the mildness of good temper, and it occiuTed 
once or twice to him, as he rode along, that St. Mary's Isle was 
the seat of a Lord ; yet that Lord w\as not an aristocrat, at least 
in his sense of the word. We arrived about eight o'clock, as 
the family were at tea and coffee. St. Mary's Isle is one of the 
most delightful places that can, in my opinion, be formed by 
the assemblage of every soft, but not tame, object, which con- 
stitutes natural and cultivated beauty. But not to dwell on its 

ternal graces, let me tell you that we found all tlie ladies of 



yZ LIFE 05 BUEN3. 

the family (all beautiful,) at home, and some strangers ; and, 
ftmoiig others, who but Urbani ! The Italian sang us many 
Scottish songs, accompanied with instrumental music. Tha two 
3'oung ladies of Selkirk sang also. We had the song of Lord 
Gregory, which I asked for, to liave an opportunity of calling on 
Burns to recite Jiis ballad to that tune. He did recite it ; and 
such was the eftect, that a dead silence ensued. It was such a 
silence as a mind of feeling naturally preserves whe.i it is touched 
with that enthusiasm which banishes every other thought but 
the contemplation and indulgence of the sympathy produced. 
Burns's Lord Gregory is, in my opinion, a most beautiful and 
affecting ballad The fastidious critic may, perhaps, say, some 
of the sentiments and imagery are of too elevated a kind for such 
a style of composition ; for instance, ' Thou bolt of Heaven that 
passest by;' and, 'Ye mustering thunder,' &c; but this is a 
cold-blooded objection, which will be said rather thau felt. 

" We enjoyed a most happy evening at Lord Selkirk's. We 
had, in every sense of the v.'ord, a feast, in which our minds 
and our senses were equally gratified. The poet was delighted 
with his company, and acquitted himself to admiration. The 
lion that had raged so violently in the morning was now as mild 
and gentle as a lamb. Next day we returned to Dumfries, and 
so ends our peregrination. I told you that in the midst of the 
storm, on the wilds of Kenmure, Burns was wrapt in medita- 
tion. What do you think he was about ? He was charging the 
Englisli army, along with Bruce, at Bannockburn. He was 
engaged in the same manner on our ride home from St. Mary's 
Isle, and I did not disturb him. Next day he produced me the 
following address of Bruce to his troops, and gave me a copy for 
DalzeU :— 

* Scots who hae wi' Wallace bled,' &c. 

Burns had entertained hopes of promotion in the Excise; but 
circumstances occurred which retarded their ftdfilment, and 
which in his own mind destroyed all expectation of their being 
ever fulfilled. The extraordinary events that ushered in the 
Revolution of France, interested the feelings and excited the 
hopes of men in ever}' corner of Europe. Prejudice and tyranny 
seemed about to disappear from among men, and the day-star 
■)f reason to rise upon a benighted world. In the dawn of this 
beautiful morning, the genius of French freedom appeared on 
our southern horizon with the countenance of an angel, but 
speedily assumed the features of a demon, and vanished in a 
shower of blood. 

Though previously a Jacobite and Ca avaher. Burns had shared 
in the original hopes entertained of this astonishing revolution 
by ai'dent and benevolent minds. The novelty and the hazard 
of the attempt meditated by the First or Constituent Assembly, 
served rather, it is probable, to recommend it to his daring tem- 
per ; and the unfettered scope proposed to be given to every kind 
of talent, was doubtless gratifying to the feelings of conscious 
but indignant genius. Burns foresaw not the mighty ruin that 
Vh6 to be the immediate consequence of an enterprise, wliich, on 



BCKNS 8 POLITICS. 93 

its ccmmeucemcnt, promised so much happiness to the human 
ra(«. And even after the career of guilt aud blood commenced, 
he could not immediately, it may bo presumed, withdraw hia 
partial gaze from a people who had so lately breathed the senti- 
ments of universal peace aiid l)eiiigiiity, or obliterate in liib bosom 
the pictures of hope and happiness to which those sentiments 
had given birth. Under these impressions, he did not always 
conduct himself with the circumspection and prudence which 
his dependent situation seemed to demand. Ho engaged, indeed, 
in no i)opular associations, so common at the time of which we 
speak, but in company he did not conceal hia opinions of public 
meiKsures, or of the reforms required in the practice of our 
government ; and sometimes, in his social and unguarded mo- 
ments, he uttered them with a wild and unjustifiable vehemence. 
Information of tliis was given to the Board of Excise, \vith the 
exaggeration so general in such cases. A superior officer in that 
department was authorised to enquire into his conduct. Burns 
defended himself in a letter addressed to one of the board, (Mr. 
Graham of Fintry,) written with great independence of spirit, 
and with more than his accustomed eloquence. The officer 
appointed to enquire into his conduct gave a favourable report. 
His steady friend, Mr. Graham of Fintry, interposed his good 
offices in his behalf, and the imprudent guager was suffered to 
retain his situation, but given to understand that his promotion 
was defeired, and must depend on his future behaviour. 

This circumstance made a deep impression on the mind of 
Buras. Fame exaggerated his misconduct, and represented him 
as actually dismissed from his office ; and this report induced a 
gentleman of much respectability (Mr.Erskine of Marr,) to pro- 
pose a subscription in his favour. The offer was refused by our 
poet in a letter of great elevation of sentiment, in which he gives 
an accomat of the whole of this transaction, and defends himself 
from the imputation of disloyal sentiments on the one hand, snd 
on the other, from the charge of having made submissions, for 
the sake of his office, unworthy of his ^^ .^oter. 

" The partiaHty of my coun*^ ^en," he observes, " has 
brought me forward as a man of genius, and has given me a cha- 
racter to support. In the poet I have avowed manly and inde- 
pendent sentiments, which I hope have been found in the man. 
Reasons of no less weight than the support of a wife and chil- 
(iren, have pointed out my present occupation as the only ehgible 
line of life within my reach. Still my honest fame is my dearest 
concern, and a thousand times have I trembled at the idea of 
the degrading epithets that malice or misrepresentation may 
affix to my name. Often in blasting anticipation have I listened 
to some future hackney scribbler, with the heavy mahce of savage 
stupidity, exultingly asserting that Burns, notwithstanding the 
fanfaronade of independence to be found in his works, and after 
naving been held up to public view, and to public estimation, 
as a man of some genius, yet, quite destitute of resources withir 
himself to support his borrowed dignitj'-, dwandledtnto a paltry 
exciseman, and slunk out the rest of his insignificant existence 
in the meanest of pursuits, and among the lowest of mankind 



94 lilPE OP BUEJfS. 

" In yonr illustrious hands, Sii*, permit me to lodge my strong 
iisavowal and defiance of sucli slanderous falsehoods. JBivms 
was a poor man from his birth, and an exciseman bj^ necessity; 
but — I will say it— the sterling of his honest worth poverty 
could not debase, and his independent British spirit oppression 
might bend, but could not subdue." 

It was one of the last acts of his life to copy this letter into 
his book of manuscripts, accompanied b}' some additional 
remarks on the same subject. It is not surprising, that at a 
season of universal alarm for the safety of the constitution, the 
indiscreet expressions of a man so j owerful as Burns should 
have attracted notice. The times certainly required extraordi- 
nary vigilance in those entrusted with the administration of the 
government, and to ensure the safety of the constitution was 
doubtless their first duty. Yet generous minds will lament 
that their measures of precaution should have robbed the imagi- 
nation of our poet of the last prop on which his hopes of 
independence rested ; and b}' embittering his peace, have iiggra- 
vated those excesses which were to conduct him to an untimely 
grave. 

Thougli the veliemence of Burns's temper, increased as it 
often was by stimulating liquors, might lead him into many 
improper and unguarded expressions, there seems no reason to 
doubt his attachment to our mixed form of government. In 
his common-place book, wliere he could have no temptation to 
disgviise, are the following sentiments : — Whatever might be my 
sentiments of Republics, ancient or modern, as to Britain, I ever 
abjured the idea. A constitution, which, in its original princi- 
ples, experience has proved to be every way fitted for our 
liappiness, it would be insanity to abandon for an untried 
visionary theory." In conformity to these sentiments, when 
tlie pressing nature of public attairs caUed, in 1795, for a general 
arming of the peonle. Burns appeared in the ranks of the Dum- 
fries Volunteers, anu .i:"r>1nyed his poetical talents instimulating 
their patriotism ; and at lu.. eason of alarm he brought forward 
th? following hymn, worthy of the Grecian muse, when Greece 
was most conspicuous for genius and valour : — 

a^cene. — A field of Battle — Time of the day, evening. — The 
wounded and dying of the victorious army are supposed to 
ioin in the following song : — 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye 
skies. 

Now gay with the bright setting sun ! 
Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties, 

Our race of existence is run ! 
Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, 

Go, frighten thfc coward and slave ; 
Go, teach tnem to tremble, fell tyrant ! but know 

No terrors hast thou for the brave I 



BUENS 3 POLITICS. 06 

Thou strik'st the dull peasant, he sinks in the dark 

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name ; 
Thou strik'st the young hero — a glorious mark I 

He falls in the blaze of his fame ! 
In the field of proud honour — our swords in our 
hands, 

Our king and our country to save — 
"While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, 

Oh ! who would not rest with the brave ! 

Though by nature of an athletic form, Burns had in his con- 
stitution the pecidiarities and the delicacies that belong to the 
temperament of genius. He was liable, from a very early 
period of his life, to that interruption in the process of digestion, 
which arises from deep and anxious thought, and wliich is 
sometimes the eriect, and sometimes the cause, of depression of 
spirits. Connected with this disorder of the stomach, there w'as 
a disposition to headache, atibcting more especially the temples 
and eye-balls, and frequentlj' accompanied by violent and 
irregular movements of the heart. Endowed by nature with 
great sensibility of nerves. Burns was, in his corporeal, as well 
as in his mental system," liable to inordinate impressions — to 
fever of body as well as of mind. This predisposition to disease, 
which strict temperance in diet, regidar exercise, and soimd sleep, 
might have subdued, habits of a very different nature strength- 
ened and inflamed. Perpetually stimulated by alcohol in one 
or other of its various forms, the inordinate actions of the 
circulating system became at length habitual; the process of 
nutrition was unable to supply the waste, and the powers of life 
began to fail. Upwards of a year before his death, there was an 
evident decUne in our poet's personal appearance, and though 
his appetite continued unimpaired, he was himself sensible that 
his constitution was sinking. In his moments of thought he 
reflected with the deepest regret on his fatal progress, clearly 
foreseeing the goal towards which he was hastening, without 
the strength of mind necessary to stop, or even to slacken, his 
course. His temper now became more irritable and gloomy ; 
he fled from himself into society, and often of the lowest kind. 
And in such company, that part of the convivial scene in which 
wine increases sensibihty and excites benevolence, was hurried 
over, to reach the succeeding part, over which uncontrolled 
passion generally presided. He who suffers the pollution ot 
inebriation, how shall he escape other pollution ? But let us 
refrain from the mention of errors over which dehcacy and 
humanity draw the veil. 

[A similar view of the latter days of Bums is taken'by his 
biographers, Heron, Ir\^ng, Walker, and, in general, by all who 
wrote soon after his death. Mr. Lockhart, suppported by 
attestations from Gilbert Burns, James Graj', then rector ot 
the grammar-school of Dumfries, and Mr. Findlater, the poet's 
superior officer, gives a more favourable representation. The 
letter of Gray presents so interesting a picture of Bums in all 
respects, that we cannot resist the temptation to connect it with 
the text of Currie :- 



r 



JIFE OP BUEirS. 

•* I love Dr. Currie, but I love the memory of Burns more, 
and uo consideration shall deter me from a bold declaration of 
tlie truth. The poet of the Cotter's Saturday Night, who felt 
all tlu" charms of the humble piety and virtue which he sang, is 
charged (in Dr. Currie's narrative) with vices which would 
reduce him to a level with the most degraded of his species. As 
I knew him during that period of his life emphatically called 
his evil days, I am enabled to speak from my own observation. 
It is not my intention to extenuate his errors, because they 
were combined with genius i on that account, they were only 
the more dangerous, because the more seductive, and deserve 
the more severe reprehension ; Wt I shall hkewise claim that 

nothing be said in malice even against him It came 

under my own view professionally, that he superintended the 
education of liis children with a degree of care that 1 have never 
seen surpassed by any parent in any rai>k of life whatever. In 
the bosom of his family he spent many a delightful hour in 
directing the studies of his eldest son, a boy of uncommon talents. 
I have frequently found him explaining to this youth, then not 
more than nine years of age, the Enghsh poets from Shaks- 
peare to Gray, or storing his mind with examples of heroic 
virtue, as they live in the pages of our most celebrated historians. 
I would ask any person of common candour, if employments like 
these are consistent with habitual drunkenness? It is not 
denied that he sometimes mingled with society unworthy of 
him. He was of a social and convivial nature. He was courted 
by all classes of men for the fascinating powers of his conversa- 
tion, but over his social scene uncontrolled passion never presided. 
Over the social bowl his wit flashed for hours together, penetrat- 
ing whatever it struck, like the fire from heaven ; but even in 
the hour of thoughtless gaiety and merriment, I never knew it 
tainted by indecency. It was playful or caustic by turns, 
following an allusion through all its windings ; astonishing by 
its rapidity, or amusing by its wild originality, and grotesque, 
yet natural combinations, but never, within my observation, 
disgusting by its grossness. In his morning hours, I never saw 
him like one suffering from the effects of last night's intemper- 
ance. He appeared then clear and unclouded. He was tlie 
eloquent advocate of humanity, justice, and political freedom. 
From his paintings, virtue appeared more lovely, and piety 
assumed a more celestial mien. While his keen eye was pregnant 
with fancy and feeUug, and his voice attuned to the very passion 
which he wished to communicate, it would hardly have been 
possible to conceive any being more interesting and delightful. 
I may likewise add, that, to the very end of his life, reading was 
his favourite amusement. I have never known any man so 
intimately acquainted with the elegant Enghsh authors. He 
seemed to have the poets by heart. The prose authors he could 
quote either in their own words, or clothe their ideas in language 
more beautiful than their own. Nor was there ever any decay 
|n any of the powers of his mind. To the last day of his Hfe, his 
judgment, his memory, his imagination, were fresh and vigorous 
as when he composed the Cotter's Saturday Niglit. The truth 



HABITS OP IXTOXICATIOX. 97 

is, that Burns was seKlom intoxicated. The drunkavtl sccv 
becoiDes l>esottod, and is shunned oven by the convivial. J lac' 
he been so, he could not lonpj have continued the idol of every 
party. It will bo freely confessed, that the hour of enjoymeut 
was often prolonged beyond the limit marked by prudence ; but 
wK..t man will venture to alHrm, that in situations where he was 
conscious of giving so much pleasure, he could at all times Ljive 
listened to her voice ? 

" The men with whom he generally associated were not of the 
lowest order. He numbered among his intimate friends many 
of the most respectable inliabitants of Dumfries audtlie vicinity. 
Several of those were attached to him by ties tliat the hand of 
calumny, busy as it was, could never snap asunder. They 
admired the poet for his genius, and loved the man for the can- 
dour, generosity, and kindness of his nature. His early friends 
clun^ to him, through good and bad report, with a zeal and fide- 
lity that proved their disbelief of the malicious stories circulated 
to his disadvantage. Among them were some of the most dis- 
tinguished characters in this country, and not a few females 
eminent for delicacy, taste, and genius. They were proud of 
his friendship, and cherished him to the last moment of his 
existence. He was endeared to them even by his misfortunes, 
and they stiU retain for his memory that affectionate veneration 
which virtue alone inspires." 

In the midst of all his wanderings, Burns met nothing in his 
domestic circle but gentleness and forgiveness, except in the 
guawings of his own rb,morse. He acknowledged his transgres- 
sions to the wife of his bosom, promised amendment, and again 
and again received pardon for his offences. But as the strength 
of his body decayed, his resolution became feebler, and habit 
acquired predominating strength. 

From October ] 795 to the January following, an accidental 
complaint confined him to the house. A few days after he began 
to go abroad, he dined at a tavern and returned home about 
three o'clock in a very cold morning, benumbed and intoxicated. 
This was followed by an attack of I'heumatism, which confined 
him about a week. His appetite now began to fail ; his hand 
shook, and his voice faltered on any exertion or emotion. His 
pulse became weaker and more rapid, and pain in the larger 
joints, and in the bauds and feet, deprived him of the enjoyment 
of refreshing sleep. Too much dejected in his spirits, and too 
well aware of his real situation to entertain hopes of recovery, he 
was ever musing on the approaching desolation of his family, 
and his spirits sank into a uniform gloom. 

It was hoped by some of his friends, that if he could live 
through the months of spring, the succeeding season might 
restore him. But they were disappointed. The genial beams 
of the sun infused no vigour into his languid frame ; the summer 
wind blew upon him, but produced no refreshment. About the 
latter end of June he was advised to go into the country, and, im- 
patient of medical advice, as well as of every species of control, 
he determined for himself to try the effects of bathing in the sea. 
For this purpose he took up his residence at Brow, in Annan- 
7 K 



96 liirE OB BTJKNS. 

dale, about ten miles east of Dumfries, on the sliore of th« 
Solwaj Firth. 

It happened that at that time a lady with whom he had been 
connected in friendship by the sympathies of kindred genius, was 
residing in the immediate neighbourhood. Being informed of 
his arrival, she invited him to dinner, and sent her carriage for 
him to the cottage where he lodged, as he was unable to walk. 
" I was struck," says this lady (in a confidential letter to a friend 
written soon after,) " with his appearance on entering the room. 
The stamp of death was imprinted on his features. He seemed 
already touching the brink of eternity. His first salutation was, 
' Well, madam, have you any commands for the other world ? ' 
I replied, it seemed a doubtful case which of us should be there 
soonest, and that I hoped he would yet hve to write my epitaph. 
(I was then in a bad state of health.) He looked in m^' face 
with an air of great kindness, and expressed his concern at seeing 
me look so iU, with his accustomed sensibility. At table he ate 
little or nothing, and he complained of having entirely lost the 
tone of his stomach. We had a long and serious conversation 
about his present situation, and the approaching termination of 
all his earthly prospects. He spoke of his death without any 
of the ostentation of philosophy, but, with firmness as well as 
feeling, as an event likely to happen very soon, and which gave 
him concern chiefly from leaving his four childi'en so young and 
unprotected, and his wife in so interesting a situation— in hourly 
expectation of lying in of a fifth. He mentioned, with seeming 
pride and satisfaction, the promising genius of his eldest son, 
and the flattering marks of approbation he had received from his 
teachers, and dwelt particularly on his hopes of that boy's future 
conduct and merit. His anxiety for his family seemed to hang 
heavy upon him, and the more perhaps from the reflection that 
he had not done them all the justice he was so well qualified to 
do. Passing from this sul^ject, he shewed great concern about 
the care of his hterary fame, and particularly the publication of 
his posthumous works. He said he was well aware that his 
death would occasion some noise, and that every scrap of his 
writing would be revived against him to the injury of his future 
reputation ; that letters and verses written with unguarded and 
improper freedom, and which he earnestly wished to have buried 
in obhvion, would be handed about by idle vanity or malevo- 
lence, when no dread of his resentment would restrain them, or 
prevent the censures of shrill-tongued malice, or the insidious 
sarcasms of envy, from pouring forth all their venom to blast his 
fame. 

" He lamented that he had written many epigrams on persons 
against whom he entertained no enmity, and whose characters 
he should be sorry to wound ; and many indifl'erent poetical 
pieces, which he feared would now, with all their imperfections 
on their head, be thrust upon the world. On this account he 
deeply regretted having deferred to put his papers in a state of 
arrangement, as he was now quite incapable of the exertion." 
The lady goes on to mention many other topics of a private 
Datura on which he spoke. " The conversation," she adds. 



ILLNESS AM) DBAX3I OF BUENS. 99 

"^ was kept up with great evenness and animation on his side. 
I had seldom seen his mind greater or more collected. Thorf) 
was frequently a* considcrahie degree of vivacity in his sallies, 
and they would probably have had a greater share, had not the 
concern and dejection I could not disguise damped the spirit of 
pleasantry he seemed not unwilling to indulge. 

" We parted about sunset on the evening of that day (the 5th 
of July, 1796) : the next day I saw him again, and we parted to 
meet no more ! " 

At the first Bums imagined bathing in the sea liad been of 
bcnelit to him : the pains in his Umbs were relieved ; but this 
was immediately followed by a new attack of fever. When 
brought back to his own house in Dimifrics, on tlie IHth of July, 
ho was no longer able to stand upright. At this time a tremor 
pervaded his frame : his tongue was parched, and his mind sank 
into delirium, when not roused by conversation. On the second 
and third daj- the lever increased, and his strength diminished. 
On the Iburtli, the sufferings of this great but ill-fated genius 
were terminated; and a life was closed, in which virtue and 
passion had been in perpetual variance. 

The death of Burns made a strong and general impression 
on all who had interested themselves in his character, and 
especially on the inhabitants of the town and county in which 
he had spent the latter years of his life. Flagrant as his folhes 
and errors had been, they had not dei)rived him of the respect 
and regard entertained for the extraordinary powers of his genius, 
and the generous quahties of his heart. The Gentlemen- Volun- 
teers of Dumfries determined to burj' their illustrious associate 
with military honours, and every preparation was made to render 
this last service solemn and in)prcssive. Tiie Fencible Infantry 
of Angusshire, and the regiment of cavalry of the Cinque Ports, 
at that time quartered in Dumfries, offered their assistance on 
this occasion ; the principal inhabitants of the town and neigh- 
bourhood determined to walk in the funeral procession ; and a 
vast concourse of persons assembled, some of them from a 
considerable distance, to witness the obsequies of the Scottish 
Bard. On the evening of the 2nth of July, the remains of 
Burns were removed from his house to the Town-Hall, and the 
funeral took place on the succeeding day. A party of tht 
volunteers, selected to perform the military duty in the church- 
yard, stationed themselves in the front of the procession, with 
their arms reversed ; the main body of the corps surrounded and 
supported the coffin, on which wore placed the hat and sword ol 
their fiiend and fellow-soldier : the numerous body of attendants 
ranged themselves in the rear; while the Fencible regiments of 
infantry and cavalrj^ lined the streets from the Town-Hall to the 
burial-ground in the southern churchyard, a distance of more 
than half a mile. The whole of the procession moved forward 
to that sublime and affecting strain of music, the Deod March 
m Saul; and three vollies fired over his grave marked the retui-n 
of Burns to his parent earth ! The spectacle was in a high 
degree grand and solemn, and accorded with the general senti- 
ments of sympathy and sorrow which the occasion had called forth. 



LofC, 



100 LlVJbl OF BDENS. 

It was an affecting circumstance, that, on tlie morning of the 
day of lier husband's funeral, Mrs, IJurns was undergoing the 
pains of labour; and that during the selemn service we have just 
l)een describing, the posthumous son of our poet was born. 
Tliis infant boy, who received tlie name of Maxwell, was not 
destined to a long life. He has already become an inhabitant 
of the same grave with his celebrated father. The four other 
cliildren of our poet, all sons (the eldest at that time about ten 
years of age), yet survive, and give every promise of prudence 
and virtue that can be expected from their tender years. They 
remain under the care of their affectionate mother in Dumfries, 
and are enjoying the means of education which the excellent 
schools of that town aftbrd ; the teachers of which, in their 
conduct to the children of Burns, do themselves great honour. 
On this occasion the name of ]\Ir. Whyte deserves to be parti- 
cularly mentioned, himself a poet as well as a man of science. 

Burns died in great poverty ; but the independence of his 
spirit, and the exemplary prudence of his wife, had preserved 
him from debt. He had received from his poons a clear profit 
of about nine hundred pounds. Of this sum the part expended 
on his library, (which was far from extensive,) and in the hum- 
ble furniture of his house, remained ; and obligations were found 
for two hundred pounds advanced by him to the assistance of 
those to whom he was united by the ties of blood, and still more 
by those of esteem and affection. When it is considered that 
his expenses in Edinburgh, and on his various journies, could not 
be inconsiderable ; that his agricultural undertaking was unsuc- 
cessful ; that his income from the Excise was for some time as 
low as fifty, and never rose to above seventy pounds a-year ; 
that his family was large, and his spirit liberal— no one will he 
surprised that his circumstances were so poor, or that, as his 
health decayed, his proud and feeling heart sank under the secret 
consciousness of indigence, and the apprehensions of absolute 
want. Yet poverty never bent the spirit of Burns to any pecu- 
niary meanness. Neither chicanery nor sordidness ever appeared 
in his conduct. He carried his disregard of monej^ to a blame- 
able excess. Even in the midst of distress he bore himself loftily 
to the world, and received with a jealous reluctance eveiy offer 
of friendly assistance. His printed poems had procured him 
great celebritj-, and a just and fair recompense for the latter off- 
springs of his pen might have produced him considerable emolu- 
ment. In the 3'ear 1795, the editor of a London newspaper, 
high in its character for literature and independence of senti- 
ment, made a proposal to him that he should furnish them, once 
a-week, with an article for their poetical department, and receive 
from them a recompense of fifty-two guineas per annum ; an 
offer which the pride of genius disdained to accept. Yet he had 
for several years furnished, and was at that time furnishing, 
the Museum of Johnson with his beautiful lyrics, without fee 
or reward, and was obstinately refusing all recompense for his 
assistance to the greater work of Mr. Thompson, which the 
'uatice and generosity of that gentleman was pressing upon liim. 

The sense of his poverty, and of the approaching distress ol 



ILLNESS AND DEATH OP BUEN8. 101 

his infant family, pressed liea\'ily on Burns as he lay on the bed 
of death. Yet he alluded to his indigence, at times, with 
something approaching to his wonted gaiety. " What busi- 
ness," said he to Dr. ^Maxwell, who attended him with the 
utmost zeal, "has a physician to waste his time on me ? I am 
a poor pigeon not worth plucking. Alas ! I have not feathers 
enough upon me to cany me to my grave." And when his 
reason was lost in delirium, his ideas ran in the same melancholy 
train : the horrors of a jail were continually present to his 
troubled imagination, and produced the most affecting exclama- 
tions. 

As for some months previous to his death he had been incapable 
of the duties of his office, Burns dreaded that his salary should 
be reduced one half, as is usual in such cases. His full emolu- 
ments were, however, continued to him by the kindness of Mr. 
Stobie, a young expectant in the Excise, who performed the 
dufios of his office without fee or reward ; and Mr. Graham of 
Fintry, hearing of his illness, though unacquainted with its 
dangerous nature, made an offer of his assistance towards 
procuring him the means of preserving his health. Whatever 
might be the faults of Burns, ingratitude was not one of the 
nunjber. Amongst his manuscripts, various proofs are found 
of the sense he entertained of Mr. Graham's fi-iendship, which 
dehcacy towards that gentleman has induced us to suppress ; 
and on this last occasion there is no doubt that his heart over- 
flowed towards him, though he had no longer the power of 
expressing his feehngs. 

On the death of Bm-ns, the inhabitants of Dumfries and its 
neighbourhood opened a subscription for the support of his wife 
and family : and Mr. Miller, Mr, M' Murdo, Dr. Maxwell, 
Mr. Syne, aud Mr. Cunningham, gentlemen of the first rcspect- 
abilitj', became trustees for the application of the money to its 
proper objects. The subscription was extended to other parts 
of Scotland, and of England also, particularly London and 
Liverpool. By this means a sum was raised amounting to 
seven hundi'ed pounds ; and thus the widow and children were 
rescued from immediate distress, and the most melancholy of 
the forebodings of Burns happily disappointed. It is true, this 
sum, though equal to their present support, is insufficient to 
secure them from future penury. Their hope in regard to 
futurity depends on the favourable reception of these volumes 
from the public at large, in the promoting of which the candour 
and humanity of the reader may induce him to lend his assist- 
ance. 

Burns, as has already been mentioned, was nearly five feet ten 
inches in height, and of a form that indicated agility as well as 
strength. His well-raised forehead, shaded with black curHng 
hair, indicated extensive capacity. His eyes were large, dark, 
fuU of ardour and intelligence. His face was well formed, and 
his countenance uncommonly interesting and expressive. Hia 
mode of dressing was often slovenly, and a certain fulness and 
bend in his shoulders, characteristic of his original pi'ofession, 
disgiiised in some degree the natural symmetry and elegance ot 

K 3 



102 



LIFE OF BUENS. 



his form. The external appearance of Burns was most strikingly 
indicative of the character of his mind. On a tirst view, his 
physiognom}^ had a certain air of coarseness, mmgled, however, 
with an expression of deep penetration, and of calm thoughtful- 
ness, approaching to melancholy. There appeared in his first 
manner and address, perfect ease and self-possession, but a stern 
and almost supercilious elevation, not indeed, incompatible with 
openness and affabihty, which, however, bespoke a mind 
conscious of superior talents. Strangers that supposed them- 
selves approaching an Ayrshire peasant who could make rhymes, 
and to Avhom their notice was an honour, found themselves 
speedily overawed by the presence of a man who bore hiinself 
with dignity, and who possessed a singular power of correcting 
forwardness and of repelhng intrusion. But though jealous of 
the respect due to himself. Burns never enforced it wliere he saw 
it was willingly paid ; and, though inaccessible to the approaches 
of pride, he was open to every advance of kindness and of bene- 
volence. His dark and haughty countenance easily relaxed 
into a look of good will, of pity, or of tenderness ; and, as the 
various emotions succeeded each other in his mind, assumed 
with equal ease the expression of the broadest humom-, of the 
most extravagant mirth, of the deepest melancholy, or ot,the 
most sublime emotion. The tones of his voice happily corres- 
ponded with the expression of his features, and with the feehngs 
of his mind. When to these endowments are added a rapid 
and distinct apprehension, a most powerful understanding, and 
a happy command of language — of strength as well as brilliancy 
of expression — we shall be able to account for the extraordinary 
attractions of his conversation — for the sorcery which in his 
social parties he seemed to exert on all around him. In the 
company of women this sorcery was more especially apparent. 
Their presence charmed the fiend of melancholy in his bosom, 
and awoke his happiest feelings ; it excited the powers of his 
fancy, as well as the tenderness of his heart; and, bj-^ restraining 
the vehemence and exuberance of his language, at times gave to 
his manners the impression of taste, and even of elegance, which 
in the company of men they seldom possessed. This influence 
was doubtless reciprocal. A Scottish ladj', acci:stomed to the 
best society, declared with characteristic ndviete, that no man's 
conversation ever carried her so completely off her feet as 
that of Burns ; and an Enghsh lady, faiuiliarly acquainted with 
several of the most distinguished characters of the present times, 
assured the editor, that in the happiest of his social hours there 
wa^ a charm about Bmiis which she had never seen equalled. 
This charm arose not more from the power than the versatility 
of his genius. No langour could be felt in the society of a 
man who passed at pleasure from grave to gay, from the ludi- 
crous to the pathetic, from the simple to the sublime; who 
wielded all his faculties with eqtial strength and ease, and never 
failed to impress the offspring of his fancy with the stamp of 
his understanding. 

This indeed, is to represent Burns in his happiest phasis. In 
larff^ and mixed parties he was often silent and dark, sometimes 



ClIAKACTEIllSTICS OF J3UKNS. 103 

fierce and overbearing ; he wasjealous of the proud man's scorn, 
jealous to an extreme of the insolence of wealth, and prone to 
avenge, even on its innocent possessor, the partiality of lortune. 
Bj' nature kind, brave, sincere, and in a singular degree com- 
passionate, he was on tlie other hand proud, irascible, and 
vindictive. His virtues and his failings had their origin in tie 
extraordinary sensibility of his mind, and equally partook of the 
chills and glows of sentiment. His friendships were liable to 
interruption from jealousy or disgust, and his enmities died 
away under the influence of pity or self-accusatiou. His under- 
staniiing was equal. to the other powers of his mind, and his 
dehberate opinions were singularly candid and just ; but, hke 
either men of great and irregular genius, the opinions which he 
dehvered in conversation were often the oftspring of temporary 
feelings and widely difiereut from the calm decisions of his 
judgment. This was not merely true respecting the characters 
of others, but in regard to some of the most important points of 
human speculation. 

On no subject did he give a more striking proof of the strength 
of his understanding, than in the correct estimate he formed of 
liimself. He knew his own failings ; he predicted their 
consequence ; the melancholy foreboding was never long 
absent from his mind ; yet his passions carried him down the 
stream of error, and swept hiui over the precipice he saw 
directly in his course. The fatal defect in his character lay in 
the comparative weakness of his volition, that superior faculty 
of the mind, which governing the conduct according to the 
dictates of the understanding, alone entitles it to be denominated 
rational ; which is the parent of fortitude, patience, and self- 
denial : which, by regulating and coml)ining human exertions, 
may be said to have effected all that is great in the works of 
man, in literature, in science, or on the face of nature. The 
occupations of a poet are not calculated to strengthen the 
governing powers of the mind, or to weaken that sensibility 
which requires perpetual control, since it gives birth to the 
vehemence of passion as well as to the higher powers of imagina- 
tion. Unfortunately, the favourite occupations of genius are 
calculated to increase all its pecuHarities ; to nourish that lofty 
pride which disdains the littleness of prudence, and the restric- 
tions of order : and, b^^ indulgence, to increase that sensibiHty 
which, in the present form of om* existence, is scarcely compatible 
with peace or happiness, even when accompanied with the 
choicest gifts of fortune ! 

It is observed by one who was a finend and associate of Burns, 
and who has contemplated and explained the system of animated 
nature, that no sentient being, \vith mental powers greatly 
superior to those of men, coidd possibly live and be happy in this 
world. "If such a being really existed," continues he, "his 
misery would be extreme. With senses more delicate and refined ,• 
with perceptions more acute and penetrating; with taste so 
exqtiisite that the olijects around him would by no means gratify 
it ; obhged to feed on nourishment too gross for his frame — he 
m'.ist be boru only to be miserable, and the continuation of hif 



10 i LIFE OF BUKNS. 

existence would be utterly impossible. Even in our present 
condition, the sameness and the insipidity of objects and pursuits, 
tlie futility of pleasui'e, and the infinite sources of excruciating 
pain, are supported with great difficulty by cultivated and refined 
minds. Increase our sensibilities, continue the same objects and 
situation, and no man could bear to live." 

Thus it appears, that our powers of sensation, as well as all 
our other powers, are adapted to the scene of our existence ; that 
they are limited in mere}', as well as in wisdom. 

The speculations of Mr. Smellie are not to be considered as the 
dreams of a theorist ; they were probably founded on sad experi- 
ence. The being he supposes " with senses more delicate and 
refined, with perceptions more acute and penetrating," is to be 
found in real life. He is of the temperament of genius, and 
perhaps a poet. Is there, then, no remedy for this inordinate 
sensibility ? Are there no means by which the happiness of 
one so constituted by nature may be consulted ? Perhaps it 
will be found, that regular and constant occupation, irksome 
though at first it may be, is the true remedy. Occupation, in 
which the powers of the understanding are exercised, will 
diminish the force of external impressions, and keep the imagi- 
nation under restraint. 

That the bent of every man's mind should be followed in his 
education and in his destination in life, is a rnaxim which has 
been often repeated, but which cannot be admitted without 
many restrictions. It may be generally true when applied to 
weak minds, which being capable of little, must be encouraged 
and strengthened in the feeble impulses by which that little is 
produced. But where indulgent nature has bestowed her gifts 
with a liberal hand, the very reverse of this maxim ought 
frequently to be the rule of conduct. In minds of a higher 
order, the object f T instruction and discipline is very often to 
restrain, rather thi n to impel; to curb the impulses of imagina- 
tion, so that the passions also may be kept under control. 

Heuce the advantages, even in a moral point of view, of studies 
of a severer nature, which, while they inform the understanding, 
employ the volition, that regulating power of the mind, which, 
like all our other faculties, is strengthened by exercise, and on 
the superiority of which virtue, happiness, and honourable fame, 
are wholly dependent. Hence also the advantage of regular and 
constant application, which aids the voluntary power by the 
production of habits so liecessary to the support of order and 
virtue, and so difficult to be formed in the temperament of genius. 
The man who is so endowed and so regulated, ma}'^ pursue his 
course with confidence in almost any of the various walks of life 
which choice or accident shall open to him ; and, provided he 
emplo;y the talents he has cultivated, may hope for such imper- 
fect happiness, and such limited success, as are reasonably to be 
expected from human exertions. 

The preeminence among men, which procures personal respect, 
una which terminates in lasting reputation, is seldom or never 
obtained by the excellence of a single faculty of mind. Experience 
teaclies us, that it has been acquired by those only who havo 



CHAEACTERI8TICS OF BUEN8. 105 

possessed the comprehension and the energy ot general talents, 
and who have regulated their appHcatiou in the line which 
choice, or perhaps accident, may have determined, by the dictates 
of their judgment. Imagination is supposed, and with justice, 
to he the leading faculty of the poet. But what poet luis stood 
the test of time by the force of this single faculty ? Who does 
not see that Homer and Shakspeai-e excelled the rest of tiieir 
species in understanding as well as in imagination ; that they 
were preeminent in the highest species of knowledge — the 
knowledge of the nature and character of man ? On the other 
hand, the talent of ratiocination is more especially requisite to 
the orator ; but no man ever obtained the palm of oratory, even 
by the highest excellence in this single talent. Who does not 
perceive that Demosthenes and Cicero w^ere not more happy in 
their addresses to the reason than in their appeals to the passions ? 
They knew, that to excite, to agitate, and to deUght, are among 
the most potent arts of persuasion ; and they enforced their 
impression on the understanding, by their command of all the 
sympathies of the heart. These observations might be extended 
to other walks of life. He who has the faculties to excel in 
poetry, has the faculties which, duly governed, and differently 
directed, might lead to preeminence in other, and, as far as 
respects himself, perhaps in happier destinations. The talents 
necessary to the construction of an Ihad, under different dici- 
pline and apphcation, miglit have led armies to victory, or 
kingdoms to prosperity ; might have wielded the thunder of 
eloquence, or discovered and enlarged the sciences that consti- 
tute the power and improve the condition of our species. Such 
talents are, indeed, rare among the productions of nature, 
and occasions of bringing them into full exertion are rarer still. 
But safe ond salutary occupations may be found for men of 
genius in every direction, while the useful and ornamental arts 
remain to be cultivated, while the sciences remain to be studied 
and to be extended, and principles of science to be applied to 
the correction and improvement of art. la the temperament of 
sensibility, which is, in truth, the temperament of general talents, 
the principal object of discipline and instruction is, as has 
already been mentioned, to strengthen the self-command; and 
this may be promoted by the direction of the studies, more 
effectuallj'-, perhaps, than has been generally understood. 

If these observations be founded in truth, they may lead to 
practical consequences of some importance. It has been too 
much the custom to consider the possession of poetical talents 
as excluding thepossibiUty of application to the severer branches 
of study, and a.s, in some degree, incapacitating the possessor 
from attaining those habits, and fi-om bestowing that attentiv^n 
which are necessary to success in the details of business, and in 
the engagements of active life. It has been common for persona 
conscious of such talents, to look with a sort of disdain on other 
kinds of intellectual excellence, and to consider themselves as iu 
some degree absolved from those rules of prudence by which 
humbler minds are restricted. They are too much disposed to 
abandon themselves to their own sensations, and to suffer life to 
pass away without regular exertion or settled purpose. 



106 XIFE or BUKNS. 

But though n_'en of genius are generally prone to indolence, vvith 
them indolence and unhappiness are in a more especial manner 
allied. The unbidden splendours of imagination may, indeed, 
at times irradiate the gloom which inactivity produces; but 
such visions, though bright, are transient, and serve to cast the 
realities of life into deeper shade. In bestowiiig great talents, 
Nature seems very generally to have imposed on the possessor 
the necessity of exertion, if he would escape wretchedness. 
Better for him than sloth, toils the most painful, or adventures 
the most hazardous. Happier to him tlian idleness were the 
condition of the peasant, earning with incessant labour his scanty 
food ; or that of the sailor, though hanging on the yard-arm, and 
wrestling with the hurricane. 

These observations might be amply illustrated by the biography 
of men of genius of every denomination, and more especially by 
the biography of the poets. Of this last description of men, few 
seem to have enjoyed the usual portion of happiness that falls 
to the lot of humanity, those excepted who have cultivated 
poetry as an elegant amusement in the hours of relaxation from 
other occupations, or the small number who have engaged with 
fi'iccess in the greater or more arduous attempts of the muse, in 
which all the faculties of the mind have been fully and perma- 
nently employed. Even taste, virtue, and comparative 
independence, do not seem capable of bestowing on men of 
genius iMjace and tranquillity without such occupation as ma,y • 
give re^jilar and healthful exercise to the faculties of body and 
mind. The amiable Shenstone has left us the records of his 
imprudence, of his indolence, and of his unhappiness, amidst the 
shades of the Leasowes ; and the virtues, the learning, and the 
genius of Gray, equal to the loftiest attempts of the epic muse, 
failed to procure him in the academic bowers of Cambridge that 
tranquillity and that respect which less fastidiousness of taste, 
and greater constancy and vigom* of exertion, would have 
doubtless obtained. 

It is more necessary that men of genius should be aware of 
the importance of self-command, and of exertion, because their 
indolence is peculiarly exposed, not merely to unhappiness, but 
to diseases of mind, and to errors of conduct, which are generally 
fatal. This interesting subject deserves a particidar investiga- 
tion ; but we must content ourselves with one or two cursory 
remarks. Relief is sometimes sought fi'om the melancholy of 
indolence in practices which, for a time, soothe and gratify the 
sensations, but which, in the end, involve the sufferer in darker 
gloom. To command the external circumstances by which hap- 
piness is affected is not in human power : but there are various 
substances in nature which operate on the system of the nerves, 
60 as to give a fictitious gaiety to the ideas of imagination, and 
to alter the effect of the external impressions which we receive. 
Opium is chiefly employed for this purpose by the disciples of 
Mahomet and the inhabitants of Asia; but alcohol, the principle 
of intoxication in vinous and spirituous hquors, is preferred in 
Europe, and is universally used in the Christian world. Under 
ihe various wounds to which indolent insensibihty is exposed. 



INFUENCES OP MELANCnOLY. 107 

and under the gloomj' apprehensions respecting futurity to 
winch it is so often a prey, how strong is the temptation to 
have recourse to an antidote by which the pain of these wounds 
is suspendal, by which the heart is exhihrated, visions of hap- 
piness are ex'cited in tlie mind, aud the forms of external nature 
clothed with new beauty ! 

Elysium opens round 
A pleasing phrcnzy buoys the lighten'd soul, 
And sanguine hopes dispel your fleeting care ; 
And what was difficult, and what was dire, 
Yields to 3'our prowess, and superior stars : 
Tlie happiest you of all that e'er were mad. 
Or are, or shall be, could this folly last, 
But soon your heaven is gone ; a heavier gloom 
Shuts o'er your head. 



Morning comes ; your cares return 



With tenfold rage. An anxious stomach well 
May be endur'd — so may the throbbing head ; 
But such a dim delirium, such a dream 
Involves you ; such a dastardly despair 
Unmans your soul, as maddening Pentheus felt, 
When, baited round Cithjcron's cruel sides. 
He saw two suns and double Thebes ascend." 
Armstrong's Art of Freservhig Health, bk. iv. 1. 163. 

Such are the pleasures and pains of intoxication, as they occur 
in the temperament of sensibiHtj', described by a genuine poet 
with a degree of truth and energy, which nothing but experience 
could have dictated. There are, indeed, some individuals, of 
this temperament on whom wine produces no cheering influence. 
On some, even in very moderate quantities, its effects are pain- 
fully irritating ; in large draughts it excites dark and melancholy 
ideas; and in draughts still larger, the fierceness of insanity 
itself. Such men are happily exempted from a temptation to 
which experience teaches us the finest dispositions often yield, 
and the influence of which, when strengthened b}'^ habit, it is a 
humihating truth, that the most powerful minds have not been 
able to resist. 

It is the more necessary for men of genius to be on their guard 
against the habitual use of \vine, because it is apt to steal on 
them insensibly, and because the temptation to excess usually 
presents itself to them in their social hom-s, when they are alive 
only to warm and generous emotions, and when prudence and 
moderation are often contemned as selfishness and timidity. 

It is the more necessary for them to guard against excess in 
the use of wine, because on them its effects are, physically and 
morally, in an especial manner injurious. In proportion to its 
f timulating influence on the system (on which the pleasurable 



10 IIFE OF BXJRXS. 

sensations depend,) is the debility that ensues — a deliillcy that 
destroys digestion, and terraniates in liabitual fever, droi)sy, 
jaundice, paralysis, or insanity. As the strength of the body 
decays, the vohtion fails; in proportion as the sensations are 
soothed and. gratified, the sensibilitj^ increases ; the morbid sen- 
sibiHt}' is the parent of indolence, because, while it impairs the 
regulating power of the mind, it exaggerates all the obstacles to 
exertion. Activity, perseverance, and self-command, become 
more and more difficult, and the great pui-poses of utility, 
patriotism, or of honourable ambition, which had occupied the 
imagination, die away in fruitless resolutions, or in feeble eflbrts. 
To apply these observations to the subject of our memoirs 
wotdd be a useless as well as a painful task. It is indeed a duty 
we owe to the living not to allow our admiration of great genius, 
or even our pity for its unhappy destiny, to conceal or disguise 
its errors. But there are sentiments of respect, and even of ten- 
derness, with which this duty should be performed ; there is an 
awful sanctity which invests the mansions of the dead ; and let 
those who moralise over the graves of their contemporaries, 
reflect with humility on their owii errors, nor forget how soon 
they may themselves require the candour and sympathy they 
aie called upon to bestow. 



THX 



pitM moicU flf 3sM larttt. 



gttOTs ^0tlial Math. 



fifllJ Sjatir anil iqmg Bnrta nf f nnr J&sxlk 

THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE. 

AN UKCO MOUENFU' TALE, 

As Mailie, and her lambs thegither. 
Were ae day nibbling on the tether, 
Upon her cloot she coost a- hitch, 
And owre she warsled in the ditch : 
There, groaning, dying, she did lie, 
When Hughoc he cam doytin by. 

Wi' glowering een and Hfted ban's, 
Poor Hughoc like a statue stands ; 
He saw her days were near-hand ended. 
But, waes my heart ! he could na mend iL 
He gaped wide, but nacthing spak— 
At length poor Maihe silence brak. 

" Oh thou, whose lamentable face 
Appears to mourn my woefu' case ! 
My dying words attentive hear, 
And bear them to my master dear. 

" Tell him if e'er again he keep 
As muckle gear as buy a sheep, 
Oh bid him never tie them mair 
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair! 
But ca' them out to park or hill, 
And let them wander at their wUl; 
So may his flock increase, and grow 
To scores o' lambs, and packs o' woo* ! 



113 BUKNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

" Tell him he was a master kin' 
And aye was good to me and mine ; 
And now my dying charge I gie him — 
My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him, 

" Oh bid him save their hannless lives 
Frae dogs, and tods, and butchers' knives I 
But gie them guid cow milk their fill, 
Till they be fit to fend themsel ; 
And tent them duly, e'en and mom, 
Wi' teats o' hay, and ripps o' corn. 

" And may they never learn the gaets 
Of other vile wanrcsfu' i)ets ; 
To slink through slaps, and reave and steal 
At stacks o' peas, or stocks o' kail. 
So may they, like their great forbears, 
For many a year come through the shears : 
So wives will gie them bits of bread, 
And bairns greet for them when they're dead. 

" My poor toop-lamb, my son and heir. 
Oh, bid him breed him up wi' care ; 
And if he live to be a beast, 
To pit some bavins in his breast ! 

" And wai-n him, what I winna name, 
To stay content wi' yowes at hame; 
And no to riu and wear his cloots, 
Like ither menseless, graceless bruieH. 

" And neist my yowie, siUy thing, 
Gude keep thee frae a tether string ; 
Oh, may thou ne'er forgather up 
Wi' ony blastit moorland toop, 
But aye keep mind to moop and mell 
Wi* sheep o' credit like thysel. 

" And now, my bairns, wi' my last breadb 
I lea'e my blessin' wi' you baith : ^ 
And when you think upo' your mither, 
Mind to be kin' to ane anither. 

" Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail 
To tell my master a' my tale ; 
And bid him bum this cursed tether. 
And for thy pains thou's get my blether.** 
This said, poor Mailie tum'd her head, 
And closed her e'en amang the dead. 



POOR MAI lie's BLKOT. 13M 



f nor aiaillr's CIcgi[. 

La-WTKNT in rliyino, lament in prose, 
Wi' snut tears trickling down j'ournose; 
Our bardie's fate is at a close, 
Past a' remead ; 
The last sad cape-stane of his woes — 
Poor Mailie's dead ! 

It's no the loss o' warl's gear, 
That could sae bitter dr.iw the tear, 
Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear 

The mourning weed: 
He's lost a friend and neiljor dear, 

In Mailie dead. 

Thro* a' the toun she trotted by him ; 
A long half mile she conld descry him : 
Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him. 

She ran with speed : 
A friend mjiir f;tithfu' ne'er cam nigh him 

Than Mailie dead. 

I wat she was a sheep o' sense, 
And iK/nld beiiave bersel' wi' mense; 
I'll say't, h-je never bvak a fence, 

Thro' thievish greed. 
Our bardie, lanely , keeps the spenco 

Sin' Mailie's dead. 

Or, if he wanders up the howe, 

Her living image in her yowe. 

Comes bleating to him. owre the knowe^ 

For bits o' bread ; 
And down the briny pearls rowe 

For Mailie dead. 

She was nae get o' moorland tips, 

Wi' towted ket, and hairy hips, 

For her forbears were h rough t in ship* 

Frae yont the Tweed ; 
A bonnier Hesh ne'er cross'd the clips 

Than Mailie dead. 

Wae worth the man wlia first did shapt 
That vile, wauchancie thing — a rape I 
It maks guid fellows girn and gape, 

Wi' choking dread : 
And Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape 

For MaiUe dead. 

Oh, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon ! 
And wha on Ayr .your chanters tune ! 
Come, join the melancholious croon 

0' Robin's reed ! 
His heart w^U never get aboon — 

His Mailie's dead ! 



114 BUKKS'S POEIICA-L WOEKB. 

A BKOTHEE POET. 

January^ 1784 

While winds frae off Ben Lomond blaw. 
And bar the doors with driving snaw, 

And hing us owre the ingle, 
I Bet Doe down to pass the time, 
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme, 

In hamely westlin jingle. 
While frosty winds hlaw in the drift, 

Ben to the chimla lug, 
I grudge a wee the great folks' gift, / 

That live sa bien and snug : / 

I tent less, and want less / 

Their roomy fireside; 
But hankei- and canker '> , 

. To see their cursed pride. 

It's hardly in a body's power 

To keep, at times, frae being sour. 

To see how things are shar'd ; 
How best o' chiels are whiles in want, 
While coofs on countless thousands rant. 

And ken na how to wair't ; 
tjfs%, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head. 

The' we hae little gear. 
We're fit to win our daily bread, 
As lan's we're hale and fier : 
" Mair spier na, no fear na 
Old age ne'er mind a feg, 
The last o't, the warst o't. 
Is only but to beg. 

To lie in kilns and bams at e'en 

When banes are craz'd and blmdis thm. 

Is, doubtless, great distress ! 
Yet then content could make us blest; 
Ev'n then, sometimes we'd snatch a tasto 

Of ti-uest happiness. 
The honest heart that's free fi-ae a* 

Intended fraud or guile, 
However fortmie kick the ba', 
Has aye some cause to smile : 
And mind still, you'll find still, 

A comfort this nae sma' ; 
Na mair then, we'll care then, 

Nae fai-ther we can fa'. , 

What though, like commoners of air. 
We wander out we know not where. 
But either house or hal' ? 



liPISTLK I'O UAVIK. IIS 

Yet nature's charms, the hill? and woods, 
The sweepinp: vales, and foamins floods. 

Are free alike to all. 
In days when daisies deck the ground. 

And blackhirds whistle clear, 
With honest joy our hearts will bound 
To see the coining year. 

On braes when we please, then, 

We'll sit and sowth a tune ; 
Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till't, 
And sing't when we hae dune. 

It's no in titles nor in rank ; 

It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, 

To purchase peace and rest ; 
It's no in making niuckle mair ; 
it's no in books; it's no in lear, 

To mak us truly blest ; 
If happiness hae not her seat 
And centre in the breast, 
We may be wise, or rich, or great, 
But never can Ixj blest : 
Nae treasures nor pleasures 

Could make us happy lang j 
Tlie heart aye's the part aye 
That makes us right or wrang. 

Think ye, that sic as you and I, 

Wha drudge and drive through wet and dry, 

Wi' never-ceasing toil ; 
Think ye, are we less blest than they, 
Wha scarcely tent us in their way, 

As hardly worth their while ? 
Alas ! how aft, in haughty mood, 

God's creatures they oppress ! 
Or else neglecting a' that's guid. 
They riot in excess ! 

Baith careless and fearless 
Of either heaven or hell ! 
Esteeming and deeming 
It's a' an idle tale. 

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce, 
Nor make our scanty pleasures less, 

By pining at our state ; 
And, even should misfortune come, 
I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some, 

An's thankfu' for them yet. 
They gie the wit of age to youth ; 

They let us ken oursel : 
They make us see the naked truth. 

The real guid and ill. 



115 BUENS'S POBTICAL WOEKS. 

Though losses and crosses 

Be lessons right severe, 
There's wit there, ye'll get there, 

Ye'll tind nae other where. 

But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts I 

(Tp say aught less wad wrang the cariwv 

And flatt'ry I detest,) 
This life has joys for you and I ; 
And joys that riches ne'er could buy ; 

And joys the very best. 
There's a' the pleasures o' the heart. 

The lover and the frien' ; 
Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part. 
And I my darling Jean I 
It w?rms me, it chai-ms me, 
To mention but her name : 
It heats me, it beets me, 
And sets me a' on flame ! 

Oh, all ye powers who rule above! 
Oh, Thou, whose very self art love! 
Thou Imow'st my words sincere ! 
The life-blood streaming through my heast 
Or my more dear immortal part, 

Is not more fondly dear ! 
When heart-corroding care and grief 
Deprive my soul of rest, 
\ Her dear idea brings relief 

And solace to my breast, 
,' Thou Being, all-seeing, 

/ Oh hear my fervent pray'r ! 

^ Still take her, and make her, 

Thy most peculiar care ! 

All hail, ye tender feelings dear ! 
The smile of love, the friendly tear, 

Tlie sympathetic glow ! 
Long since, this world's thorny ways 
Had number'd out my weary days, 

Had it not been for you ! 
Fate still has blest nae with a friend. 

In every care and iU ; 
And oft a more endearing hand, 
A tie more tender still. 
It lightens, it brightens 
The tenebrific scene, 
To meet with, and greet \fith 
My Davie or my Jean ! 

Oh how that name inspires my style 
The words come skelpin', rank and fiW 
Amaist before I ken ! 



ad;)rk.s.s to thk deil. 117 

The ready measure riiis as fine 
As Phoebus and the 1 anions Nine 

Were glowrin' owre my pen. 
My spaviet Pegasus will limp, 

Till ance he's fairley het ; 
And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp. 
And rin an unco tit : 
Bu tlest theii, the beast then 

Should rue this hasty ride, -i 

I'll light now, and dight now, * 

His sweaty, wizen'd hide. - . ; ■ 



^Utm tn tlTB Sri!. 



Oh Prince ! Oh chief of many throned pow'rs, 
That led th' embattled seraphim to war. — 

MILTOV. 

Oh thou ! whatever title suit the, 
Auld Homie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 
Wha in yon cavern grim and sootie, 

Closed under hatches, 
Spairges about the brunstane cootie, 

To scaud poor wretches ! 

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, 
And let poor damned bodies be ; 
I'm siure sma' pleasure it can gie, ; 

E'en to a deil. 
To skelp and scaud poor dogs like me, 

And hear us squeel ! 

Great is thy pow'r, and great thy fame; 
Far ken'd and noted is thy name ; 
And tho' yon lowin' heugh's thy hame^ 

Thou travels far ; 
And faith ! thou's neither lag nor lame, 

Nor blate nor scaur. 

Whyles, ranging like a roaring lion, 
For prey a' holes and corners tryin ; 
Whyles on the strong- wing'd tempest flyia 

Tirlin' the kirks ; 
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin', 

Unseen thou lurks. 

I've heard my reverend granny say. 
In lanely glens ye like to stray ; 
Or where auld ruin'd castles, gray. 

Nod to the moon. 
Ye fright the nightly wand'^er's way 

Wi' eldritch croon. 



X18 BUKKS'S POETlCAIi WOBB.S. 

When twilight did my granny summon. 
To say her prayers, douce honest woman ! 
A^'t yont the dyke she's heard you bummiu'y 

Wi' eerie drone ; 
Or, rustlin', thro' the boortries comin', 

Wi' heavy groan. 

Ae dreary, windy, winter night, 

The stars shot down wi' sklentin' light, 

Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright 

Ayont the lough ; 
Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight 

Wi' waving sough. 

The cudgel in my nieve did shake. 

Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, 

When wi' an eldritch, stoor quaick — quaick- 

Aniang tlie springs, 
Awa ye squattcr'd, like a drake. 

On whistling wings. 

Let warlocks grim, and wither'd hags. 
Tell how wi' you, on ragweed nags, 
They skim the muirs and dizzy crags, 

Wi' wicked speed ; 
And in kirkyards renew their leagues 

Owre howkit dead. 

Thence countra wives, wi' toil and pain. 
May plunge and plunge the kirn in vain ; 
For, oh, the yellow treasure's taen 

By witching skill ; 
And dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gaen 

As yell's the bill. 

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord. 
And float the jinglin' icy boord. 
Then water kelpies haunt the foord. 

By your direction, 
And'nighted trav'llers are allur'd 

To their destruction. 

And aft your moss-traversing spunkiea 
Decoy the wight that late and dxwak is : 
The bleezin', curst, mischieveus monkey! 

Delude his eyes. 
Till in some miry slough he sunk is, 

Ne'er mair to rise. 

When mason's mystic word and grip 
In storms and tempests raise you up. 
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop 

Or, strange to tell ! 
The youngest brother ye wad whip 

Affstraughttohelll 



ADDUKSS 'lO Till.; uiiiL. 1 }§ 

Lang S3'ne, in Ediu's bonnie 3'ard, 
When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd. 
And all the soul of love they shar'd. 

The raptur'd hour, 
Sweet on the fragrant tlow'ry sward, 

In sliady bow'r : 

Then you, ye auld snec-drawing dog I 

Ye came to Paradise incog, 

And played on man a cursed brogue^ 

(Black be your fa !) 
And gied the infant warld a shog, 

'Maist ruin'd a'. 

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, 
Wi' reekit duds, and reestit gizz, 
Ye did present your smoutie phiz 

'Mang better folk, 
And sklented on the man of IJzz 

Your spitefu' joke ? 

And how ne gat him i' your thrall, 
And brak him out o' house and hall. 
While scabs and botches did him gall, 

Wi' bitter claw. 
And lows'd his ill-tongued, wicked scavl. 

Was warst ava ? 

But a' your doings to rehearse, 
Your wily snares and fetchin' tierce, 
Sin' that day Michael did you pierce, 

Down to this time, 
Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Earse, 

In prose or rhyme. 

And now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkiB*. 
A certain bardie's rantiu', drinkin*, 
Some luckless hour will send him linki»* 

To your black pit ; 
But faith I he'll turn a corner jinkin'. 

And cheat you yet. 

But, fare you wcel, auld Nickie-ben I 

Oh wad ye tak a thought and men* ) 

Ye aibUns might — I dinna ken- 
Still hae a stake — 

I'm wae to think upo' yon den, 
Ev'n for your s^e I 



^^ 



120 buen's poetical woeks. 

tn jiis Iniii Mim Haggir. 

ON 3 ViNG HEB THE ACCUSTOMED EIPP OF COEH XO 
HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAE. 

A aviv 'New-year I wish thee, Maggie! 
Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld bagg-ie; 
The' thoii's howe-backit, now, and knaggie, 

I've seen the day 
Thou could hae gaen hke onie staggie 

Out-owre the lay. 

TLo' tjow diou's dowie, stiff, and crazy, 
And thy ol-l hide's as white's a daisy, 
I"ve seeo thoe dappl't, sleek, and glaiitie, 

A bonny gray ; 
He ebould been tight that daur't to raise thee 

Ance a da^'. 

Thoa ance was i' the foremost rank, 
^ A hll}, bnirdly, stecve and swank. 

And set weel down a shapely shank 

As e'er tread yird; 
And could hae flown out-owre a stank, 

Like ony bird. 

It's now some nine-and-twenty year. 
Sin* thou was my guid fother's mere f 
He gied me thee, o' tocher clear 

And fifty mark; 
Tho* it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear, 

And thou was stark. 

Wlien first I gaed to woo my Jennj', 
Ye then was trottin' wi' your minnie: 
Tho' ye was trickie, slee, and funnie, 

Ye ne'er was donsie ; 
But hamely, tawie, quiet, and cannie, 

And unco sonsie ; 

That day je pranc'd wi' muckle pride. 
When ye bure hame my bonny bride: 
And sweet and gracefu' she did ride, 

Wi' maiden air ! 
Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide, 

For sic a pair. 

Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hoble^ 
And wiutle like a saumont-coble. 
That day ye was a jinker noble, 

For heels and win' 1 
And ran them till they a' did wauble, 

Far, far behiu' ! 



NEW-YKAR MORNING SALUTATION. J21 

When tliou ajK'l I werd young iiud skeigh, 

At stable -111 ml*: ut fiiirs were di-eigh, 

How thou Wad prance, and snoro, and skeigh 

And tak the road.! 
Town's bodies ran, and stood abeigh, 

And ca't the mad. 

When thou was corn't, and I was mellow, 
We took the road aye like a swallow : 
At brooses thou had ne'er a feUow 

For pith and speed ; 
But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow 

Whare'er thou gaed. 

The snia' droop-rumpl't, hunter, cattle, 
Might aibHns waur't thee for a brattle ; 
But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle^ 

And gar't them whaizle : 
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle 

O' saugh or hazle. 

Thou was a noble fittie-lan', 

As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ! 

Aft thee and I, in aucht hours' gaun. 

In guid March weather, 
Hae turn'd sax rood beside our hau' 

For days thegither. 

Ihou never braindg't, and fech't, and fliskit, 
But thy auld tail thou wad hae ^^^skit, 
And spread abreed thy well-tilled brisket, 

Wi' pith and pow'r, 
Till spritty knowes wad rair't and insket. 

And sly pet owre. 

When frosts lay lang, and snaw^s were deep. 
And threaten'd labour back to keep, 
I gicd thy cog a wee-bit heap 

Abood the timmer ; 
I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep 

For that, or simmer. 

In cart or car thou neyer reestit: 
The tjteyest brae thou wad hae fac't it : 
Thou never lap, and sten't and breastit* 

Then stood to blaw ; 
But just thy step a wee thing hastit. 

Thou snoov't awa. 

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a* ; 
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw; 
Forbye sax mae I've sell't awa, 

That thou hast niLTSt : 
They drew me thretteen pund and tw% 

The vera warst. 



J 



122 BXTENS'S POETICAL WOEZS. 

Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wroughk. 
And wi' the weary vvari' fought ! 
And monie an anxious day I thought 

We wad be beat ! 
Yet here to crazy age we're brought, 

Wi' something yet. 

And think na, my auld trusty servan*. 
That now perhaps thou's less deservin 
And thy auld days may end in starvin* 

For my last fou, 
A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane 

Laid by for you. 

We've worn to crazy years thegither; 
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither ; 
Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether. 

To some hain'd rig, 
WLare ye may nobly rax your leather, 

Wi' sma' fatigue. 



Mlmnn, 

Upok that night, when fairies light, 

On Cassihs Downans dance, 
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze. 

On sprightly coursiers prance; 
Or for Coleon the route is ta'en, 

Beneath the moon's pale beams ; 
There, up the cove, to stray and row 

Amang the rocks and streams 
To sport that night. 

Amang the bonny, winding banks, 

Where Doon rins, whimplin', clear. 
Where Bruce auce rul'd the martial raiik% 

And shook his Carrick spear, 
Some merry, friendly, countra folks. 

Together did convene. 
To burn their nits, and pou their stocka^ 

And haud their Halloween 

Pu' blythe that night. 

The lasses feat, and cleanly neat, 

Mair braw than when they're fine; 
Their faces blythe, fu' sweetly kythe. 

Hearts leal, and warm, and kin' ; 
The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs, 

Weel knotted on their garten, 
Some unco blate, and some wi' gaba^ 

Gar lasses' hearts gang startin', 
Whiles fast at night 



HALLOWEEN. 128 

Then first and foi-emost, thro' the kailj 

Their stocks maun a' be sought ance; 
They steek their een, and graip, and wale, 

For luuckle nnes and strauglit anes. 
Poor hav'rel Will feU affthe drift, 

And wander'd through the bow-kail, 
And pou't for want o' better shift, 

A runt was like a sow-tail, 

Sae bow't that night. 

Then, straught or crooked, j'ird or nane, 

They roar and cry a' throu'ther ; 
The vera wee-things, todlin', rin 

Wi' stocks out-o\ATe their shouther ; 
And gif the custoc's sweet or sour, 

Wi' joctelegs they taste them ; 
Syne coziely, aboon the door, 

Wi' cannie care, they've placed them 
To he that night. 

The lasses straw frae 'mang them a* 

To pou their stalks o' com ; 
But Rab slips out, and jinks about, 

Behint the muckle thorn : 
He grippet Nelly hard and fast ; 

Loud skirl'd a' the lasses ; 
But her tap-pickle maist was lost. 

When kuitthn' in the fause-house 
Wi' him that night. 

The auld gvudwife's weel-hoordel uitg 

Ai-e round and round divided, 
And mony lads' and lasses' fates 

Are there that night decided : 
Some kindle, couthie, side by side, 

And burn thegither trimly ; 
Some start awa wi' saucy pride 

And jump out-owre the chimhe 
Fu' high that night. 

Jean slips in twa wi' tentie e'e ; 

Wha 'twas, she wadna tell; 
But this is Jock, and this is me, 

She says in to hersel : 
He bleez'd owre her, and she owre him, 

As they waud never mair part ; 
rUl, fuff 1 he started up the lum. 

And Jean had e'en a sair heart 
To see't that night. 

Poor WilUe wi' his bow-kail runt, 

Was brunt wi' primsie Malhe 
And Mary, nae doubt, took the dnmi^ 

To be compared to Willie. 



124 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

Malj s nit lap out wi* pridefu' fling, 
And her ain lit it burnt it ; 

Wliile Willie lap, and swoor, bj' jing, 
'Twas just the way he wanted 
To be that night. 

Nell had the fause-house in her min/ 

She pits hersel and Rob in ; 
In loving bleeze they sweetly join, 

Till white in ase they're sobbin'. 
Nell's heart was daacin' at the view. 

She whisper'd Kob to leuk for't : 
Rob, stowlins, ]n-ie'd her bonny mou* 

Fu' cozie in the ncux for't, 

Unseen that night. 

But Merran sat behint their backs. 

Her thoughts on Andrew Bell; 
She lea'es them gashiu' at their cracki^ 

And slips out by hersel' : 
She through the yard the nearest taks. 

And to the kiln she goes then, 
And darklins graijjit tor the banks, 

And in the blue-clue throws then 
Bight fear't that night. 

And aj-e she win't, and aye slie swat 

I wat'she made nae jaukin' ; 
Till something held within the pat, 

Guid L — d i but she was qnakin' ! 
But whether 'twas the deil himsel. 

Or whether 'twas a bauk-en'. 
Or whether it was Andrew Bell, 

She did na wait on talkin' 

To spier that night. 
Wee Jenny to her granny says, 

" Will ye go wi' nie, granny ? 
I'll eat the apple at the glass, 

I gat frae uncle Johnny : " 
She fuff't her pipe wi' sic a lunt, 

In wrath she was sae vap'rin', 
She notic't na, aizle bnmt 

Her braw new \\'orset apron 

Out thro' that night. 

•* Ye little skelpie-linnner's face ! 

I daur you try sic sporting', 
As seek the foul thief onie place. 

For him to spae j^our fortune : 
Na doubt but ye may get a sight I 

Great cause ye had to fear it; 
For monie a ane has gotten a frigh^ 

And lived and died deleeret. 
On sic a night. 



125 



Ae hairst afortj the Shorra-moor-r- 
I luind't as woUs yostreen, 
'Twas a gilpey, tlioii I'm sure 
I was na past tyfteen : 
The simmer had been cauld and wat, 

And stufl' wiis unco' green ; 
And aye a rantin' kirn we gat, 
And j list on Halloween 

It fell that night. 

Our stibble rig w.is Rab M'Graeu, 

A clever sturdy fallow : 
He's sin' gat Epjue Sim w' wean, 

Th'-it lived ill Aciimacalla: 
He gat luniip-seed, J mind it weel, 

A.id be made unco light o't; 
But mouy a da}- was by Uiiusel', , 

He was sae saivly fvigiited 
Tiiat very night," 

i'heu up gat iLtchiu' Jaime Fleck, 

Audheswoor by his conscience, 
That he could sow hemp-teed a peck ; 

lor i' was a' but nonsense. 
The au)d guidinan raught down the pock, 

And out a handfu' gied him ; 
Syne bade him slip frao 'mang the folk' 

Sometime when nae ane see'd him. 
And try'd that night. 

He marclics through amang the stacki^ 

Tho' he was something sturtin ; 
The graip he for a harrow taks, 

And iiauls at his curi;in ; 
And every now and then he says, 

" Hemp-seed J saw thee, 
And her that is to be my lass, 

Come alter me, and draw thee 
As fast this night." 

He whistl'd up Lord Lennox' march. 

To keep his courage cheery ; 
Altho' his hair began to arch, 

He was sae iiey'd and eerie : 
Till presently he hears a squeak. 

And then a grane and gruntle : 
He by his shouther gae a keek. 

And tumbl'd wi' o wiutle 

Out-owre that night. 

He roar''l a horrid murder-shout. 

In di-eadfu' des[)eratiou ! 
And young rmd auld cam rinnin' out. 

And hear the sad narration : 



u 8 



126 BUR:\»'8 I'OETICAL WORKS. 

He swoor 'twas hilchin Jean M'Craw, 
Or crouchie Merran Hiimphie, 

Till, stop — she trotted through them a*— 
And whft was it but grumphie 
Asteer that night ! 

Meg fain wad to the barn hae gaen. 

To win three wechts o' naethiug ; 
But for to meet the deil her lane, 

She pat but little faith in : 
She gies the herd a pickle nits, 

And twa red-cheekit apples, 
To watch, while for the barn she sets. 

In hopes to see Tain Kipples 
That vera night. 

She turns the key wi' cannie thraw, 

AJid owre the threshold venturs j 
But first on Sawny gies a ca', 

Syne bauldly in she enters : 
A ratton rattled up the wa', 

And she cried, " L — d, preserve her I ** 
And ran thro' midden hole and a'. 

And pray'd with zeal and fervour, 
Fu' fast that night. 

They hoy't out, Will, wi' sair advice; 

They hecht him some fine braw ane j 
It chanc'd the stack he faddom't thrice 

Was tiunner-propt for thrawin' ; 
He taks a surly old moss oak 

For some black, grousome carlin' ; 
And loot a wmze, and drew a stroke, 

Till skin iu blypes cam haurlin' 
Aft"s nieves that night. 

A wanton widow Leezie was. 

As canty as a kittliu ; 
But, och ! that night, amang the shawii 

She got a fearfu' scttlin' ! 
She thro' the wins, and by the cairn, 

And owre the hill gaed scrievin, 
Wliere three lairds' lands met at a buro. 

To dip her left sark-sleeve in. 
Was bent that night. 

Wliyles owre a linn the burnie plays, 

As through the glen it vvhimpl't ; 
Whyles roxmd a rocky scaur it strays j 

Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't : 
Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; 
Wliyles cooyit underneath the braes, 

Below the spreading hazel. 
Unseen that night. 



A WINTER NIGHT. 12? 

Amang the brackens, on the brae, 

Between her and tlic moon, 
The cleil, or else an outler quey, 

Gat np and gae a croon : 
Poor Leezj^'s heart maist lap the hool; 

Near hiv'rock lieight she jumpit, 
But mist a tit, and m the pool 

Out-owre the Inys she plumpit, 

Wr a plunge that night. 

In order, on the clean hearth-stane, 

The luggies tliree are ranged, 
And every time great care is ta'en, 

To see them duly changed : 
Aidd uncle John, wha wedlock's joya 

Sin' Mars' year did desire, 
Because he gat the toom-dish thrice, 

He heav'd them on the tire, 

hi wrath that night. 

Wi' merry sangs and iriondly cracks, 

I wat they did nae weary : 
And unco tales, and i'unny jokes, 

Their sports were cheap and cheery j 
Till butter'd so us, wi' li'agrant lunt, 

Set a' their gabs a-steer-a' ; 
Syne, wi' a social glass o' stnmt, 

The}'' parted alf careerm' 

Fu' blythe that night. 



£ Wiuin Sigjit. 

Poor naked wretches ! wlieresoe'er you are. 
That bide the pelting of the pitiless storm! 
How shall yom- houseless heads and unfed sides, 
Yoiu" looped and windowed raggedncss defend you 
From seasons such as these ? SHAKSPBABa. 

When biting Boreas, fell and doure. 
Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bovv'r; 
When Phoibus gies a short-lived glow'r 

Far south the Ut't, 
Dim-darkening thro' the liaky show'r, 

Oi" whirling drift ; 

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, 
Poor labour sweet in sleep was rocked. 
While burns, wi' snawy wreaths upchockeci^ 

Wild eddying swirl, 
Or through the mining outlet hocked, 

Down headlong hurL 



128 BU KNs's P!»KT1CAI. AVORKS. 

Listening, the doors and vvinnocks rattle^ 
I thought me on the ourie cattle, 
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle 

O' winter war, 
And thi'ough the drift, deep-lairing sprattk)^ 

J3eneath a scaur. 

Hk happing bird, wee, helpless thing, 
That in the merry months o' spring, 
Delighted me to hear thee sing, 

What comes o' thee. / 

Wliare wilt thou cow'r thy cluttering wing, 

And close thy e'e ? 

Ev'n ydh on murd'ring errands toil'd, 

Lone from your savage homes exil'd, 

The blood-stain'd roost and sheep-cot spoil'd 

My heart forgets. 
While pitiless the tempest wild 

Sore on you beats. 

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign. 
Dark muffled, view'd the dreary plain ; 
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, 

Rose in my soul, 
When on my ear this plaintive strain 

Slow, solemn, stole : — 

" Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust \ 
And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost ! 
Descend, ye chiUy, smothering snows ! 
Not all your rage, as now united shows 

More hard unkindness, unrelenting. 

Vengeful malice, unrepenting. 
Than heaven-iUumined man on brother man bestowtl 
See stern oppression's iron grip. 

On mad ambition's gory hand, 
Sending-, hke blood-hounds from the shp. 

Woe, want, and murder o'er a land ! 
E'en in the peaceful rural vale, 
Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale. 
How pamper'd Luxury, Flattery by her side. 

The parasite empoisoning her ear, 

With all the servile wretches in the rear, 
Looks o'er proud property, extended wide ; 

And eyes the simple rustic hind. 

Whose toil upholds the glittering show, 

A creature of another kind, 

Some coarser substance, unrefined, 
PliMjed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile below. 
Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe, 
Witti iordly Honour's lofty brow. 

The powers you proudly own ? 
Is there beneath Love's noble name, 
Can harbour dark the selfish aim. 



EPISTLE TO J. lAPRAIK. 129 

To bless himself alone ! 
Mark maiden innocence a prey 

To love-pretending snares, 
This boasted Honour turns away, 
Shunning soft Pity's rising sway, 
Regardless of the tears and unavailing prayers. 
Perhaps this hour in misery's squalid nest, 
She strains your infant to her joyless breast, 
And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rockmg blast I 
Oh ye, who, sunk in beds of down. 
Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 
Think for a moment on his \vretched fate, 

Wliom friends and fortune quite disown ! 
Ill satistied keen nature's clamorous call, 

Stretched on his straw he lays himself to sleep, 
While through the ragged roof and chinky wall, 
Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap ; 
Think on the dungeon's grim confine, 
Wliere guilt and poor misfortune pine ! 
Guilt, erring man, relenting view I 
But shall thy legal rage pursue 
The wretch already crushed low 
By cruel fortune's undeserved blow ? 
Afflietion's sons are brothers in distress ; 
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss I '* 

I hear nae mair, for chanticleer 
Shook off the poutheray snaw, 

And hailed the morning with a chee — 
A cottage-rousing craw. 

But deep this truth impressed my mind- 
Through all his works abroad, 

The heart benevolent and kind 
The most resembles God. 



AN OLD SCOTTISH BABD. 

April \si, 178fi. 

While briers and woodbines budding green. 
And paitricks scraichin' loud at e'en, 
And morning poussie whiddin seen. 

Inspire my muse, 
This freedom in an unknown frien* 

I pray excvise. 

On Fasten-e'en we had a rockin', 

To ca' the crack and weave ourstockin*; 

And there was muckle fun and jokin,» 

Ye need na' doubt ; 
At length we had a hearty yokin' 

At sang about. 



BURNS S POETICAL WORKS. 

There was ae sang, amang the rest, 
Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best, 
That somekini husband had addrest 

To some sweet wife : 
It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, 

A' to the life. 

I've scarce hoard aught described sae weel 
What gen'rous manly bosoms feel ; 
Thought I, " Can this be Pope, or Steele, 

Or Beattie's wark ? " 
They told me 'twas an odd kind chiel 

About Muirkirk. 

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't. 
And sae about him tbere I spier 't, 
Then a' that ken't him round declar'd 

He had ingiue, 
That nane excell'd it, few cam near't, 

It was sae tine. 

That, set him to a pint of alo, 

And either douce or merry tale, 

Or rhymes and sangs he'd made himsel*, 

Or witty catches, 
'Tween Inverness and Teviotdalo 
He had few matches. 

Then up I gat, and swoor an aith, 

Though I should pawn my plough and graith, 

Or die a cadger pownie's death 

At some dyke back ; 
A pmt and giU I'd gie them baith 

To hear yom* crack. 

But, first and foremost, I should tell, 
Amaist as soon as 1 could spell, 
I to the crambo-jiugle feU ; 

Tho' rude and rough, 
Yet croomng to a body's sell, 

Does weel eneugh. 

I am na poet, in a sense. 

But just a rhymer, hke by chance, 

And hae to learning nae pretence, 

Yet, what the matter ! 
Whene'er my muse does on me glanc^ 

I jingle at her. 

Your critic folk may cock their nose. 
And say " How can you e'er propose, 
You, wlia ken hardly verse frae prose, 

To mak a sang ? " 
But, by your leaves, my learned foes, 

Ye're may be wrang. 



EPISTLE TO J. LEPllAIK. 



181 



What's a' your jargon o' j'our schools, 
Your Latin names for horns and stools ; 
If honest nature made you fools, 

What sairs your grammars ? 
Ye'd hetter ta'en up spades and shools 

Or knappin-hanimers. 

A set o' dull, conceited hashes. 
Confuse their brains in College classes ! 
They gang in stirks, and come out asses, 

Plain truth to speak : 
And 9yne they think to climb Parnassus 

By dint o' Greek ! 

Gie me a spark o' nature's fire ! 
That's a' the learning I desire ; 
Then though I drudge thro' dub and mir* 

At pleugh or cart. 
My muse, tho' hamely in attire, 

May touch the heart. 

Oh for a spunk o' Allan's glee. 
Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee. 
Or b;right Lapraik's, my friend to be. 

If I can hit it; 
That would be lear eneugh for me. 

If I --oidd get it 

Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow, 
Tho' real friends I believe are few, 
Yet, if yo\ir catalogue be fou, 

I'se no insist, 
But gif ye want ae friend that's tru^ 

I'm on your list. 

I winna blaw about mysel ; 

As ill I Uke my faults to tell ; 

But fi-iends and folk that wish me well. 

They sometimes roose me; 
Tho' I maun own, as monie still 

As far abuse me. 

But Mauchline race, or IMauchhne fair, 
I should be proud to meet you there; 
We'se gie ae night's discharge to care 

If we forgather. 
And hae a swap o' rhymin'-ware 

Wi' aue anither. 

The four-giU chap, we'se gar him clatter 
And kirscu.him wi' reekin water; 
S}nie we'll sit down and tak our whitter 

To cheer our heart ; 
And, iiaith, we'se be acquainted better 

Before we part. 



|_32 JJTJKNS rOEXICAL WORKS. 

Awa j-e selfish war'ly race, 

Wha think that havius, sense, and grace, 

Even love and friendship should give place 

To catch the plack ; 
I diuna like to see your face 

Nor hear your crack. 

But ye whom social pleasure charms, 
Whose lieart the tide of kindness warms. 
Who hold your beini; on the terms 
" Eiu.-\i aid the others," 
Come to my lx)\vl, couioto my arms, 
^ My friends, my brothers ! 

But, to conclude ray lang epistle. 
As my auld pen's worn to the grissle, 
Twa lines irae you wnd gar me tissle. 

Who am, most fervent. 
While I can either sing or whissle, 
Your friend and servant. 



April 21, IISS. 

While new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake 
And pownies reck in pleugh or hraik, 
This hour on e'enin's edge I take, 

To own I'm debtor. 
To honest-hearted auld Lapraik, 

For his kind letter. 

Forjeskit sair, wi' weary legs, 
Rattlin the corn out-owre the rigs, 
Or deahng thro' amang the naigs 

Their ten liours' bite, 
My awkwart muse sair ple;ids and begs 

I woidd na write. 

The tapetless, ramfee/d'd hizzie. 
She's saft at best, and something lazy, 
Quo' she, " Ye ken we've been sae busy. 

This month and mair. 
That, trouth, my head is grown right dizzie, 

And something sair." 

Her dowflT excuses pat me mad ; 
" Couscieuce," says I, " ye thow 
I'll write, and tliat a hearty blaud, 

This vera night ; 
So diuna ye atti-ont your trade, 

But rhvme it risht. 



KPT«:TT.K to J I.APRATK. 133 

Shall baula Lnpraik, the king o' hearts, 
Tlio' mankind were a pack o' cailes, 
Kooseyou sac weel.for your deserts, 

In terms sac friendl}', 
Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts, 

And thank him kindly." 

'r.e 1 gat paper in a blink, 

/ lid down gacd stnmpie iu the ink : 

Cj.uoth I, " Before I sleep a wink, 

I vow I'll close it ; 
Andifye winnamak it clink, 

By Jove I'll prose it!" 

i-'vc I've hegmi to scrawl, Imt whether 
In rhyme, or prose, or baith tliegither, 
< ;r some hotch-potch that rightly ncithear 

Let time mak proof; 
But I shall scribble down some blether 

Just clean aff-loof. 

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge and carp, 

The' fortune use ycni hard and sharp ; 

Come, kittle up your moorland harp 
Wi' gleesome touch : 

Ne'er mind how fortune waft and warp- 
She's but a b-tch. 

She's gien me monie a jirt and fleg, 
Sin' I could striddle owre a rig ; 
But, by the L— d, tho' I should beg 

Wi' lyart pow, 
I'll laugh, and sing, and shake my leg, 

A.S lang's I dow ! 

Now comes the sax-and-twentieth simmar, 
I've seen the bud upo' the timmer. 
Still persecuted by the limmer 

Frae year te year ; 
But y^et, despite the kittle kimmer, 

I, Rob, am here. 

Do ye envy the city gent, 

Behint a kist to lie and sklent. 

Or, purse-proud, big wi' cent, per oent> 

And muckle wame. 
In some bit brugh to represent 

A bailhe's name ? 

Or is'tthe paughty, feudal Thane, 

Wi' ruffl'd sark and glancing cane, 

Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shani bane 

But lordly stalks. 
While caps and bonnets aff are taen, 

As by he walks ? 



^"^^ BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

Oh, Thou, wlia gies us eacli guid gift! 
Gie me o' wit and sense a lift, 
Then turn me, if TJiou please, adrift, 

Thro' Scotland wide ; 
Wi' cits noi- lairds I wadna shift, 

In a' their pride I 

Were this the charter of our state, 
" On pain o' hell be rich and great," 
Damnation then would he our fate, 

Beyond remead ; 
But thanks to Heav'u that's no the gatd 

We learn our creed; 

For thus the royal mandate ran. 
When first the human race began, 
"The social, friendly, honest man, 

Whate'er he be, 
'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan, 

And none but he ! " 

Oh mandate glorious and divine ! 
The followers o' the ragged Nine, 
Poor thoughtless devils yet may shine 

In glorious light. 
While sordid sons o' Mammon's line 

Are dark as night. 

Tho' here they scrape, and squeeze, and ffn>w|| 
Their worthless nievfu' of a soul 
May in some future carcase howl, 

The forest's fright ; 
Or in some day-detesting owl 

May shun the light. 

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, 
To reach their native kindred skies, 
And sing their pleasures, hopes, and joys, 

In some mild sphere. 
Still closer knit in friendship's ties 

Each passing year I 



to WMm ^ [mpsna], 

OCHILTREE. 

May, 1785. 

I OAT your letter, winsome Willie; 
Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie 
Tho' i maun say't, I wad be siUy, 

And unco vain. 
Should I beheve, my coaxin' Billie, 

Your flatterin' strain. 



TO WILLIAM s[lMPRO 

But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, 
I 8ud be laith to think ye hinted 
Irouic satire, sidehns sklented 

On my poor Musie ; 
Tho' in sic phraisin' terms ye've ponn'd i^ 

1 St; J'cely excuse ye. 

My senses wad be in a creel, 
Should I but dare a hope to sped, 
Wi' Allan, or vvi' Gilberttield, 

The braes o' fame; 
Or Fergusson, the writer chiel, 

A deathless name. 

(Oh Fergusson ! thy glorious parts 

111 suited law's dry musty arts ! 

My curse upon j'our whunstaue heart 

Ye E'ubrugh gentry ; 
The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes 

Wad stow'd his pantry !) 

Yet when a tale comes i' my head. 
Or lasses gied m^' heart a screed, 
As whiles they're like to be my dead, 

(Oh sad disease !) 
I kittle up my rustic reed ; 

It gies me ease. 

Auld Coila, now may fidge fu' fain. 

She's gotten poets o' her ain, 

Shiels wha their chanters winna hain. 

But tune their lays. 
Till echoes a' resound again 

Her weel-simg praise. 

Nae poet thought her worth his whilft, 
To sd; her name in measur'd style ; 
She lay like some unkenn'd-of-isle 

Beside New Holland, 
Or whare wild-meeting oceans boiJ 

Besouth Magellan. 

Ramsay and famous Fergusson 
CKed Forth and Tay a lift aboon 
Yarrow and Tweed, to monie a tune, 

Owre Scotland rings, 
While Irwin, Lugar, Ajt, and Doon, 

Naebody sings. 

Th' missus, Tiber, Thames, and SeiM^ 
Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line; 
But, Willie, set your fit to mine. 

And cock your crest. 
We'll gar our streams and bumies shiiM 

Up wi' the best. 



Ida 



BUKKSS POETICAL WOEKS. 



We'll sing auld Coila's plaiiis and fells. 
Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells, 
Her banks and braes, her dens and delk, 

Where glorious Wallace 
Aft bm*D the grec, as story tell, 

Frae southron billies. 

At Wallace' name what Scottish blood 
But boils up in a spring-tide Hood ! 
Oft have our fearless fathers strode 

By Wallace' side, 
Still pressing onward, red-wat shod, 

Or glorious died ! 

Oh sweet are Coila' s haughs and woods, 
When lintwhites chant amang the buds, 
And jinkin' hares, in amorous whids. 

Their loves enjoy, 
While thro' the braes the crushat croods 

With wailfu' cry ! 

Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me 
When winds rave thro' the naked tree } 
Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree 

Are hoary gray ; 
Or blinding di-ifts wild furious flee, 

Dark'ning the day ! 

Oh, nature ! a' thy shows and forms 
To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms! 
Whether the summer kindly warms, 

Wi' life and light, 
Or winter howls in gusty storms, 

The lang, dark night ! 

The muse, nae poet ever fand her, 
Till by himsel he learn'd to wander, 
Adown some trotting hum's meander, 

And no think lang ; 
Oh sweet, to stray and pensive ponder, 

A heart-felt sang ! 

The war'ly race may drudge and drive, 
Hog-shouther, juudie, stretch and strive; 
Let me fair nature's face descrive, 

And I, wi' pleasure, 
Shall let the busy grumbling hive 

Bum owre their treasure. 

Fareweel, " my rhyme-composing brither," 
We've been ovrre lang unkenn d to ither; 
Now let us lay- our heads thegither, 

In love fraternal j 
May envy wallop in a tether, 

Black fiend, infernal ! 



TO W£LLIA.il SLIMPSONl. IM 

While HiorliluKlmpn hate tolls and taxes: 
While inonrhm' lie-uLs lilxo gmH fat braixoi; 
While terra tinna mm hev axis 

Diurnal tiin:s', 
Count oil a fii-i<'ii(l in faith aiul practice, 

JX IlOBERT 1 J URNS. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

My memorj''s no woi-th a preen ; 

I had amaist forgotten clean, 

Ye bade me writer you what thej'' meau, 

By this New Lifrht, 
'Bout which our herds sac att hae been 

Maist !ik« to fight. 

In days when msnliind were hut callans 
At gramuiar, logic, and sic talents, 
They took nae pains their speecli to balaace 

Or rules to gie, 
But spak their tlioughts in plain braidlalla.ua, • 

Like you or me. 
In thaeauld times, they thought th«n*con 
Just like a sark, or pair o' shoou, 
Wore by degrees, till her last roon 

Gaed j)ast their viewing, 
And shortly afUsr she was done. 

They gat a new one. 

This past for certain — -undisputed ; 
It ne'er cam i' their heads te doubt it, 
Till cliiels gat up and wad confute it. 

And caM it wrang ; 
And muckle din there was about it, 

I^aith loud and lang. 

Some herds, well learn'd upo' the beuk. 
Wad threap auld folk the think misteuJc! 
For 'twas the auld moon turned a neuk 

And out o' sight, 
And backlins-coniin', to the leuk 

Siie grew niair bright. 

This was denied — it ivas aflfirmed ; 
The herds and hirsels were alarmed .• 
The rev'rend grey-beai'ds rav'd and storm'd 

That beardless laddies 
Siiould think they better were iufonn'd 

Than their auld daddies. 

Frae less to mair it^aed to sticks ; 

Frae words and aiihs to clours and nicks, 

And mony a fallow gat his licks, 

Wi' hearty crunt ; 
And some, to learn them for their tricks, 

Were hang'd and brunt. 

V d 



i;]8 BUli^ss poktical wokks. 

This game was plaj''(l in monie lands, 
And Auld Light caddies burc sic hands, 
That, faith, the youngsters took the sands 

Wi' nimble shanks, 
Till lairds forbade, by strict commands, 

Sic bluidy pranks. 

But New Light herds gat sic a cowe, 
Folk thought them ruin'd stick-and-stowe, 
Till now araaist on every knowe, 

Ye'll find ane plac'd ; 
And some their New-Light fair avow, 

Just quite barefac'd. 

Nae doubt the Auld Light flocks are bleatin*, 
Their zealous herds are vex'd and sweatin'; 
Mysel' I've even seen them greetin' 

Wi' girnin' spite, 
To hear the moon sae sadly lied on 

By word and write. 

But shortly they will cowe the loons ! 
Some Auld Light herds in neebor towns 
Are raind't on thimis tliey ca' balloons, 

To tak a flight, 
And stay ae month among tlie moons 

And see them right. 

Gnid observation they will gie them ; 

And when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them. 

The hindmost shair'd, they'll fetch it wi' them. 

Just i' their pouch, 
And when the New Light Billies see them, 

I think they'"ll crouch : 

Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter 

Is naething btit a " moonshine matter ; " "* 

But tho' dull prose-ibik Latin splatter 

lu logic tulzie, 
I hope we bardies ken some better 

Than mind sic brul/.ic. 



SfHtji mil Ir. inriiinink. 

A TRUE STOBT. 

Some books are lies fi-a end to end, 
And some great lies wei« never penn'dj 
E'en ministers they hac I'.oeu kenn'd. 

In holy rapture, 
A rousing whid .t imes to vend, 

And nail't wi' Scripture. 



DEATH AM) itll. IlOUNBOOK. 139 

But this that I atu gaun to tell. 
Which lately on a night hctoU, 
Is just as true's tho deil's in hell, 

Or Dublin's city : 
That e'er he nearer comes ourscl 

'sa niucklc pity. 

The claclian yill had made me cauty — 

I was na foil, but just had plenty ; 

I st^icher'd vvhjles, luit yet took tent aye 

To ft-ee the ditches ; 
And hillocks, stanes, and bushes kenu'd ay« 

Frae ghaists and witches. 

The rising moon liegan to glow'r 
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre: 
To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r, 

I sot mysel ; 
But whether she had thi-ee or four, 

I could na tell. 

I was come roimd alx)ut the hill, 
And todlin' do\un on Willie's mill. 
Setting my staff' wi' ail my skill, 

To keep me sicker ; 
The' leeward whyles, against my will, 

I took a bicker. 

I there wi' something did forgather. 

That put me in an eerie swither : 

An awtu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther, 

Clear-dangling, hang ; 
A three-taed leister on the ither 

Lay, large and lang. 

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, 
The queerest shape that e'er I saw, 
For fient a vame it had ava ; 

And then its shanks, 
They were as thin, as sharp and sma', 

As cheeks o' branks, 

" Guid e'en," quo' I ; " Friend, hae ye been mawia 
When other folk are busy sawin' ? " 
It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan', 

But naething spak ; 
At length says I, " Friend, whare ye gaun, 

W^ill 3'e go back ? " 

It spake right hcwe — " My name is Death, 
But be na tley'd." Quoth I, " Guid faith, 
Ye're maybe come to stap my breath ; 

But tent me, billie — 
I red ye wccl, tak care o' skaith. 

See, there's a gully 1 " 



: 

140 BUENS'S POETICAL W0KK8. 


** Guidman," quo' he, " put up your whittU^ 
I'm no desigu'd to try its mettle ; 
But if I did, I wad l)e kittle 

To be uiislear'd ; 
I wad na mind it, no, that spittle 

Out-owre m>' beard." 


" Weel, weel," says I, " a bargain be't j 
Come, gies your hand, and sae we're gree't, 
We'll ease our shanks and tak a seat — 

Come, gies your news ; 
This wliile ye hae been mony a gate, 

At mony a house." 


" Ay, ay," quo' he, and sliook his head, 
" It's e'en a lang time indeed 
Sin' I began to nick the thread 

And choke the breath ; 
Folk maun do something for their bread, 
i And sae maun Death. 


" Sax thousand years are nearhand fled 

Sin' I was to the butchiug bred, 

And mony a scheme in vain's been laid. 

To stap or scaur me ; 
Till one Hornbook's taen up the trade, 
1 And faith he'll wanr me. 


" Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the clachan, 
Deil mak his king's-hood in a spleuchan 1 
He's grown sae well acquaint wi' Buchan, 

And ither chaps, 
The weans hand out the fingers laughin'. 

And pouk my hips. 


" See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart. 
They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart; 
But Doctor Hornbook wi' his art 

And cursed skill, 
Has made them both no worth a f— t; 

Damn'd haet they'll kilL 


' " 'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen, 
I threw a noble throw at ane ; 

1 Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain; 

' But deil-ma-care, 
It just play'd dirl on the bane, 

: But did nae mair. 


"Homhook was by wi' ready art, 
And had sae fortified the part, 
That when I looked to my dart, 

It was sae blunt, 
Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart 

Of a kail-runt. 



DEATH AND ^H. HOENBOOK. 

*' I drew my scytlie in sic a fury, 
I nearliand cow])it \vi' iny luuTy, 
But 3'ct the buuld apothecary 

• Witlisto()dt% shock; 
I might as wcel hac tried a quarry 
0' hard whin rock. 

** And then a doctor s saws and whittle*. 
Of a' dimensions, shapes, and metals, 
A' kinds o' lioxos, nniy.s, and bottles, 

He's sure to hae ; 
Their Latin names as fast he rattles 

As A B C. 

" Calces o' fossils, earths, and trees ; 
Time sal-marinum o' the seas ; 
The farina of beans and peas, 

lie has't in plenty ; 
Aqua-fortis, what 3'ou please, 

He can content ye, 

" Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, 

Urinus spiritus of capons ; 

Or mite-horn shavings, fiUngs, scrapings, 

Distill'd per se : 
Sal-alkali 0' midge-tail clippings, 

And mony mae." 

" Waes me for Johnny Ged's Hole now," 
Quo' 1 ; "if that thae news be true. 
His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew, 

Sae white and bonny, 
Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew ; 

They'll ruin Johnny ! " 

The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, 
And says, " Ye need na yoke the pleugh, 
Kirkyards will soon be till'd cneugh, 

Tak ye nae fear ; 
They'll a' be trencli'd wi' mony a sheugh 

In twa-three year. 

" Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae death. 

By loss 0' blood or want 0' breath, 

This night I'm free to tak my aitli, ,• 

That Hornbook's skill 
Has clad a score i' their last claith. 

By drap and pill. 

" An honest wabster to his trade, 

Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce well brsOf 

Gat tippence worth to mend her head, 

Wlien it was sair ; 
The wife slade cannie to her bed, 

But ne'er spak mair. 



141 



142 



BUKNS'S POETICAL WOBKS. 



" A countra laird had taen the batts. 
Or rome cunmirriug in his guts; 
Hisouly sou for liornhook sets, 

And pays him well — ■ 
The lad, for twa guitl g-inimer-pets, 

Was laird himsel. 

*' That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's Wift/t 
Thus goes he on from day to day, 
Thus does he poison, kill, and slay, 

An's well paid for't ; 
Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prej-- 

Wi' his cars'd dirt. 

« But hark ! Ill tell you of a plot 
Though dinna ye be speaking o't; 
I'll uail the self-conceited sot 

As dead's a herriii' ; 
Neist time we meet, I'll wad a groat, 

He get's his fairin' ! " 

But just as he began to tell, 

The auld kirk-hammer strak the beU 

Some wee short hour ayont the twal. 

Which rais'd us baith : 
I took the way that pleased mysel'. 

And sae did Death. 



t\}t inlij /air. 



A robe of seeming truth and trust 

Hid crafty observation ; 
And secret hung, with poison'd crust, 

The dirk of Defamation : 
A mask that like the gorget show'd. 

Dye-varying on the pigeon ; 
And for a mantle large and broad. 

He wrapt him in Religion. 

Hypocrisy a-la-mode. 



Upon a simmer Sunday mom. 

When Nature's face is fair, 
I walked forth to view the com, 

And snuff the cauler air : 
The rising sun owre Galston muirs, 

Wi' glorious light was glintin' ; 
The hares were hirpling dowai the fi 

The lav'rocks they were chantin' 
Fu' sweet that da. 



THB nOLY FAIR. 143 

As lightsomcl}' I glom-'d abroad. 

To sec a scene sae jxay, 
Three liizzies, early at the road, 

Cam skelpiii' up the wiiy ; 
Twa had maiitoeh's o' dolcfu' bhick, 

But ane \\i lyart lining ; 
The third, th;it ;,^aod a-\vec a-back, 

Was in the lasliion shining, 

Fu' gay that day. 

The twa appear"d like sist(,Ts twin, 

In feature, torui, and claes; 
Their visage witlicr'd, lang, and thin, 

And sour as ony slaes ; 
Tlie third mm up, hap-step-an'-lowp. 

As light a* ony lanibie, 
And wi' a curcliie low did stoop, 

As soon as e'er she saw me. 

Fu' kind that day. 

"V\''i' bonnet aft", quoth 1, " Sweet lass, 

I think ye soeni to ken me ; 
I'm sure I've seen that bonny face, 

But yet I canna name ye." 
Quo' she, and laughin' as she spak. 

And taks me Ijy the hands, 
" Ye, for my sake, hae gien tlie feek. 

Of a' the ten conmiands 

A screed some day. 

" My name is Fun— ^oiu- cronie dear. 

The nearest tViund ye hae; 
And this is Superstition here. 

And that's Hypocrisy. 
I'm gauu to Mauchline Holy Fair, 

To spend an lioiu- in daffin' : 
Gin ye'U go there, yon nnikl'd pair, 

We will get famous laughin' 

At them this day.** • 

Quoth I, " Wi' a' my heart, I'll do't; 

I'll gd; ray Sunday sark on. 
And meet you on the holy spot — 

Faith, we'sehae fine remarkini" 
Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time, 

And soon I made me read}' ; 
For roads were clad, from side to side, 

Wi' monie a weary body. 

In di-oves that day. 

Here farmers gash, in liding graith, 

Gaed hoddin by their cottars ; 
There, swankies young, in braw braid claith. 

Are springin' o'er the gutters. 



144 BUKNS'S POETICAL WCKES. 

Tlie la,sses, skelpin' barefit, thrang, 

In silks and scarlet glitter ; 
Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in mony a whanpf, 

And farls bak'd wi' butter, 

Fu' crump that day. 

When by the pLite we set our nose, 

Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, 
A greedy glow'r bhu^k bonnet tln-ows, 

And we maun draw our tippence, 
Tlien in we go to see the show ; 

On ev'ry side they're gath'rin', 
SKime carryiiig dinh, some chairs, and stool*. 

And some are busy blethrin' 

Right loud that day. 

Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, 

And screen our country gentry, 
There racer, Jess, and twa-threc wh-res, 

Are blinkin' at the entry. 
Here sits a raw of tittlin' jauds, 

Wi' heaving breast and bare neck, 
And there a batch o' wabster lads, 

Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock 
For fun this day. 

Here sum are thlnkin' on their sins, 

And some upo' their claes ; 
Ane curses feet tliat fyi'd his shins, 

Anither sighs and prays : 
On this hand sits a chosen swatch, 

Wi' screw'd up, grace-proud faces; 
On that a set o' chap's at watch, 

Thrang winking on the lasses 

To chairs that day. 

Oh happy is that man and blest ! 

(Nae wonder that it pride him ! ) 
Wha's ain dear lass that he likes best, 
* Comes clinkin' down beside him ! 

Wi' arm repos'd on the chair back, 

He sweetlj^ does compose him ; 
Which, by degrees, slips round her «eck, 
An's loof upon her bosom, 

Unkenn'd that day. 

Now a' the congregation o'er 

Is silent expectation : 
For Moodie speels the holy door, 

Wi' tidings o' d-mn-tion. 
Should Hornie, as in ancient days, 

'Mang sons o' God present him, 
The vera sight of Moodie's face, 

To's ain bet hame had sent him 

Wi' fi-ight that dav 



TIIK HOLY FAIR. 

flear how lie clears the points o' faith 

Wi' nittlin' and wi' thumpin' ! 
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath. 

He's stampin' and he's jumpin' ! 
His lengthen'd chin, his turn'd-up snout, 

His eldritch squeal and gestures, 
Oh, how the}' tire the heart devout, 

Like cantharidiaii plasters, 

On sic a day. 

But hark ! the tent has chang'd its voioei 

Ther(;'s peace and rest nao longer ; 
For a' the real judges rise. 

They canna sit tor anger ; 
Smith opens out his cauld harangi'iCS, 

On practice and on morals ; 
And aff'the godl}' pour in thrangs, 

To gie the jars and ban-els 

A lift that day. 

Wliat signifies his barren shine. 

Of moral powr's and reason ? 
His English style and gesture fine 

Are a' clean out o' reason. 
Like Socrates or Antoine, 

Or some auld Pagan heathen. 
The moral man he does dr^ne. 

But ne'er a word o' faiti \, 

That's right tha^ day. 

In guid time comes an antidote 

Against sic poison'd nostrum : 
For Peebles, frae the water-fit, 

Ascends the holy rostiaim : 
See, up he's got the word o' God, 

And meek and raim has view'd it. 
While Common Sense has ta'en the roa*' 

And aff, and up the Cowgate, 
Fast, fast, that day. 

Wee MiUer neist the guard relieves. 

And orthodoxy raibles, 
Tho' in his heart he weel believes. 

And thinks it auld wives' fables • 
But faith ! birkie wants a manse^ 

So, cannily he hums them ; 
Altho' his carnal wit and sense 

Like hafflins-ways o'ercomes hiiv 
At times that day. 

Now butt and ben the cliange-house fills 

Wi' yill-caup commentators : 
Here's crj-in.^ out for bakes and gilia, 

And there the pinfc-stoup clattera ; 

10 o 



145 



146 BUENS'S POETICAL -WOEKB. 

While thick and thrang, and loud and langr, 
^ Wi' logic and wi' Scripture, 
They raise a din, that in the eud. 
Is like to breed a rupture 

O' wrath that day. 

Leeze on me drink ! it gies us mair 

Than either school or college : 
It kindles wit, it waukens lair, 

It pangs us tbu o' knowledge. 
Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep, 

Or any stronger potion, 
It never fails, r n drinking deep, 

To pittle up uiir notion 

By day or night. 

The lads and lasses, blythely bent 

To mind baith saul and body, 
Sit round the table weel content, 

And steer about the toddy. 
On this ane's dress, and that ane's lerik. 

They're making observations ; 
While some are cozie i' the ueuk. 

And formin' assignations 

To meet some day. 

But ■ •• w the L — d's ain trumpet touts, 

Till a' the hills are rairin', 
And echoes back return the shouts — 

Black Russell is na sparin' : 
His piercing words, like Highlan' swords, 

Divide the joints and marrow ; 
His talk o' hell, whare devils dwell, 

Our vera sauls does harrow 
Wi' fright that day. 

A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit, 

Fill'd full o' lowiu' brunstane, 
Wha's ragin' flame, and scorchin' heat, 

Wad melt the hardest whun-stane 1 
The half asleep start up wi' fear, 

And think they hear it roarin'. 
When presently it does appear 

'Twas but some neebor snorin* 
Asleep that day, 

'Twad be owre long a tale to tell 

How moriie stories past, 
And how they crowded to the yill 

Wlien they were a' dismist : 
How di-ink gaed round, lu cogs and caupa 

Amang the furms and benches ; 
And cheese and bread, frae women's lap* 

Was dealt about in lunches. 
And dauds that day. 



TIIK UOLT FAIR. I47 

In comes a {^aucie, gash guidwife, 

An'i sits clown by the tire, 
Syne draws her kebbuck and her knife; 

The lasses they are shyer. 
The auld giiidraeii, about the grace, 

Frae side to side they bother, 
Till some aue by his bonnet lays. 

And gi'es them't hke a tether, 
En' lang that day. 

Waesluck ! for him that gets nae lass,- 

Or lasses that hae nathing ! 
Sma' need has he to say a grace. 

Or melvie his braw claithing ! 
Oh wives be mindfu' ance yoursel 

How bonny lads ye wanted, 
And dinna, for a kebbuck-heel. 

Let lasses be affronted 
On sic a day. 

Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin' tow, 

Begins to jow and croon ; 
Some swagger hame the best they^ow, 

Some wait the afternoon. 
At slaps the billies halt a blink, 

Till lasses trip their shoon : 
Wi' faith and hope, and love and drink, 

They're a' in famous tune 

For crack that day. 

How monie hearts this day converts 

0' sinners and o' lasses ! 
Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gane^ 

As saft as ony flesh is, 
There's some are fou o' love divine : 

Thei'e's some are fou o' brandy ; 
And many jobs that day begin 

May end in houghmagandy. 

Some ither day. 



" For sense they little owe to frugul heav'n— 
To please the mob they hide the Uttle giv'n.* 

KiiiMAENOCK wabsters fidge and claw. 

And pour your creeshie nations ; 
And ye wha leather rax and draw. 

Of a' denominations, 
Bwith to the L-xigh Kirk, ane and a% 

And then? tak up your stations; 
Then aflF to Bi-jbie's in a raw, 

And pour divine libations. 

Fur joy this day. 



BUKKS'S rOETICAIi WOllKa. 

Curst Commou Sense, that imp o' hell, 

Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder ; 
But Oliphant aft made her yell, 

And Russell sair misca'd her ; 
This day M taks the flail, 

And he's the boy will olaud her ! 
He'll clap a shangan on her fail, 

And set tho bairns to daud her. 

Wi' dirt this day. 

Mak haste and turn king David ovvre, 

And lilt wi' holy clangor ; 
0' double verse come gie us four, 

And skirl up the Bangor : 
This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure, 

Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her, 
For Heresy is in her pow'r, 

And gloriously she'll whang her 
Wi' pith this day. 

Come, let a proper text be read, 

And touch it alT wi' vigour, 
How graceiess Ham leugh at his dad. 

Which made Canaan a nigger ; 
Or Phineas drove the murdering blade, 

Wi' wh-re-*bhorring: rigour : 
Or Zipporah, the scauldin' jad. 

Was like a bluidy tiger 

r th' inn that day. 

There, try his mettle on the creed, 

And bind him down wi' caution. 
That stipend is a carnal weed 

Ho taks but for the fashion ; 
And gie him o'er the flock to feed. 

And punish each transgression ; 
Especial, rams that cross the breed, 

Gie them suflicient threshin', 

Spare them nae day. 

Now, auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail, 

And toss th}' horns fu' canty ; 

ae mair thou'lt rowte out-owre the dal«^ 

Because thy pasture's scanty 
For lapfu's large o' gospel kail 

Shall fill thy crib in plenty, 
."■■AMi runts o' grace the'pifk and wale, 

A\!o gi'en by the way o' dainty. 
But ilka day. 

)<ae mair by Babel's streams we'll weep^ 
To think upon our Zion ; 
nd hing oar middles up to sleep, 
Like baby-clouts a- drying; 



THK OUIM .NATION. 14J 

Come screw tho pe}2:.s, \\\' tunefu' cheap 

And o'er the tliairms oo trym' ; 
Oh, rare ! to see our ol bucks wneepi. 

And a' like l:inil>-tails fl\in' 

Fu' fast this dayj 

Lang Patronage, \\i' rod o' airu. 

Has shor'd the Ivirk's undom'. 
As lately Fenwick, sair tbri:um. 

Has proven to its nuu : 
Our patron, liouosi man ! Gloncaim, 

He saw niiachief was brewin ' ; 
And like a ffodly elect baim 

He's waid us out a true ane. 

And sound this day* 

Now Robertson, harauirue nae raair. 

But steek yonr gab tor ev«r : 
Or try the wicked town ot Ayr, 

For there they'll think you clever j 
Or, nae rellection on your lear. 

Ye may counnence a snaver ; 
Or to the N(;tlierton reuan. 

And turn a carpet-weaver 

Aff-hand this day, 

Mutrie and you were lust a maccn« 

We never had sic twa drones : 
Auld Hornie did the Laich Kirk watcb. 

Just like a winkin' baudrous: 
And aye he catched the tither wretch. 

To fry them m his caudroas : 
But now his honour maun detacn, 

Wi' a' his brimstonie squadrons, 
FjLst. fast this day. 

See, see auld Orthodoxy's lae* 

She's swiugein through the city ; 
Hark., how the nine-tail'd cat she plays t 

I vow it's unco pretty : 
There, Learning, with his Greekish face. 

Grunts out some Latin ditty. 
And (Jommon Sense is g mii, sac saySn 

To male to Jamie B- aV.UH 

Her plant tins aay. 

But there's !M oral icy hiir.ssi . 

Embracing all opiniuus. 
Hear how he gie;^ Uie tither yell. 

Between his tw,i cmpmions; 
See, how slie peels the -kin and fell. 

As ane were peeUn' oni.iasi 
Now tnere — they're packed aff to hoU, 

And bauish'd our (louunionSf 

Henccfortii this day. 



160 BURNS'S POiSTlCAL WORKS. 

Oh, happj' day ! rejoice, rejoice ! 

Come bouse about the porter ! 
IWLorality's demure decoys 

Shall here nae mair find quarter: 
M -, Russell, are the boys. 

That Heresy can torture : 
They'll gie lier on a rape a hoyse, 

And cowe her measure shorter 

By th' head some day. 

Come, bring, the tither mutckin in, 

And here's, for a conclusion, 
To every New Liixht mother's son, 

From this time i'ortli, Confusion : 
If maur they deave us wi' their din, 

Or Patronage intrusion, 
We'U hght a spunk, and every skia 

We'll rin them aff in fusion. 
Like oil some day. 



I^n faints |)Unt!i. 

" Friendship ! mysterious cement of the sool! 
Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society ! 
I owe thee much ! ' ' — Blair. 

Dear Smith, the slce'est, pankie thief, 
That e'er attempted stealth or rief, 
Yc surely hae some warlock -breef 

Owre human hearts : 
For ne'er a bosom yet was prief 

Against your arts. 

For me, I swear, by sun and moon, 
And every star that blinks aboon, 
Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon 

Just gaun to see you ; 
And ev'ry ither pair that's done 

Mair ta'en I'm v^dth you. 

That auld capricious rarlin, Nature, 
To mak amend-- for scriiupit stature, 
She's turn'd you aff, a human creature 

On her first plan ; 
And in her freaks, on every feature 

She's wrote, the Man, 

Just now I've ta'en the fit o' rhyme, 
My barmie noddle's working prime, 
My fancy yerkit up sublime 

Wi' hasty summon ; 
Hae ye a leisure moment's time, 

To hear what's comin" ? 



151 



Some rhyme a noiiihbours mime to lash; 
Some rhyme (vain thought) lor iieedfu' cash 
Some rhyme to court tlie country clash, 

And raise a din ; 
For me, an aim I never lash — 

1 rhyme tor fun. 

The star that rules my luckless lot. 

Ha^ •ated me the russet coat, 

An amn'd my fortune to the groat; 

But in requit, 
Hae blest me \vi' a random shot 

0' countra wit. 

This while my notion's ta'en a sklent, 
To try my fate in puid black prent; 
But still the mair I'm that way bent, 

Something cries " Hoolie! 
I red you, honest man, take tent ! 

Ye'll shaw your folly. 

There's ither poets, much your betters. 
Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, 
Hae thought they had ensur'd their debtow 

A' future ages ; 
Kow moths deform in shapeless tatters, 

Their unknown pages." 

Then farewell hopes o' laurel boughs, 
To garland my poetic brows ! 
Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs 

Are whistling thrang, 
And teach the lanely heights and howes 

My rustic sang. 

I'll wander on, with tentless heed 
How never-halting moments speed. 
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread i 

Then, all unknown, 
I'll lay me with th' inglox-ious dead, 

Forgot and gone ! 

But why o' death begin a tale .' 
Just now we're living sound and hale. 
Then top and maintop crowd the Bail, 

Heave care o'er side ; 
And large before enjoyment's gale, 

Let's tak the tide. 

This life sae far's I understand. 

Is a' enchanted fairy land, 

Where pleasure is the magic wand, 

That, wielded right, 
Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand. 

Dance by fu' light. 



162 BUKNS'S POETICAL WOKKS. 

The magic wand, then, let us wield ; 
For, ance that five-and-forty's speel'd, 
See, crazy, weary, joyless eild, 

Wi' wrinkl'd face, 
Comes liostin', hirplin' owre the field. 

Wi' creeping pace. 

When ance life's day draws near the gloaming, 
Then fareweel vacant, careless roamin' ; 
And fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin', 

And social noise ; 
And fareweel dear, deluding woman ! 

The joy of joys! 

Oh life ! how pleasant is thy moraing, 
Yoimg Fancy's rays the hills adorning ! 
Cold-pausing caution's lesson scorning, 

We frisk away. 
Like school-boys, at the expected warning, 

To joy and play. « 

We wander there, we wander here, 
We eye the rose upon the brier, 
Unmindful that the thorn is near, 

Among the leaves .' 
And tho' the puny wound appear, 

Short while it grieves. 

Some, lucky, find a fiowr'y spot, 
For which they never toil'd or swat ; 
They drink the sweet and eat the fat, 

But care or pain ; 
And, haply, eye the barren hut 

With high disdain. 

With steady aim some Fortune chase; 
Keen hope does ev'ry sinew brace ; 
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race, 

And seize the prey : 
Then cannie, in some cozie place. 

They close the day. 

And others', like your humble servan'. 
Poor wights ! nae rules nor roads observin'; 
To left or right eternal swervin', 

They zig-zag on ; 
Till curst with age, obscure and starvin', 

They often groan. 

Alas ! what bitter toil and straining — 
But truce with peevish poor complaining I 
Is fortune's ficHe Luna waning ? 

E'en let her gang ! 
Beneath what light she has remaining 

Let's sing cur sang. 



TO J. SMITH. 163 

My pen I here fling to the door, 

And kneel, " Ye pow'rs," and warm implore 

** The' I should wander terra o'er, 

In all her climes, 
Grant me but this, I ask no more, 

Aye rowth o' rhymes. 

Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds, 
Till<iciclcs hing frae their beards ; 
Gie' fine braw claes to fine life guards, 

And maids of honour ! 
iind yill and whisky gie to cairds. 

Until they sconner. 

A title, Dempster merits it ; 
A garter gie to Willie Pitt ; 
Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit, 

In cent, per cent. 
But give me real, sterUng wit, 

And I'm content. 

While ye are pleased to keep me hale, 
I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, 
Be't water-brose, or muslin-kail, 

Wi' cheerfu' face. 
As lang's the muses dinna fail 

To say the grace." 

An anxious e'e I never throws 
Behint my lug or by my nose ; 
I jouk beneath misfortune's blows 

As weel's I may : 
Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and proac, 

I rhyme away. 

Oh, ye douce folk, that live by rule. 
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool, 
Compar'd wi' you — oh fool ! fool ! fool I 

How much unlike; 
Your hearts are just a standing pool, 

Your lives a dyke I 

Nae hair-brain'd, sentimental traces, 
In your unletter'd nameless faces ! 
In arioso trills and graces 

Ye never stray. 
But gravissimo, solemn basses 

Ye hum away. 

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're \vise| 

Nae ferly tho' ye do despise 

rhe hairum-scairum, rara-stam boys, 

The rattUng squad i 
I see you upward cast your eyes — 

— Ye ken the road. 



164 BUKNS S POETICAL WOKKS. 

Wliilst I — but I shall haud me there— 
Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where — 
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae raair, 

But quat my sang, 
Content wi' you to mak a pair, 

Whare'er I gang. 



EECITATIVO. 

When lyart leaves bestrew the yird. 
Or wandering like the baukie-bird, 

Bedim cauld Boreas' blast ; 
When hailstaues drive wi' bitter skyte 
And infant frosts begin to bite, 

In hoary cranreuch di'cst ; 
Ae night at e'en a merry core 

O' randie, gangrel bodies, 
In Poosic Nancy's held the splore, 
To drink their orra duddies : 
Wi' quaffing and laughing, 

They ranted and they sang ; 
Wi' jumping and thumping. 
The vera girdle rang. 

First, neist the fire, in auld red rags, 
Ane sait weel brac'd wi' mealy bags, 

And knapsack a' in order ; 
His doxy lay within his arm, 
Wi' usquebae and blankets warm- 
She blinket on her sodger : 
And aye he gies the tozie drab 

The tither skelpin' kiss, 
WhUe she held up her greedy gab 
Just like an aumos dish. 
Ilk smack stiU, did crack still. 

Just like a cadger's whip, 
Th n staggering and swaggering 
He roared this ditty up. 



Tune — Soldiers' Joy. 

I am a son of Mars, who have been in many ware, 
And show my cuts and scars wherever I come ; 
This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench, 
When welcoming the IVench at the sound of the drtim, 
Lai de daudle, &c 



THE JOLLl BfiGGAKS. 15: 

My 'preiuiccship I past where my Icndov DrcatliM his la.<»t, 
When the bloody die was cast on the hci^lits of Ahram ; 
I served out my trade when the ijalhint ^ume was pla\'d. 
And the Morro low was laid at the sountl of the drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c. 

I lastly was with Curtis, among the lloating hatt'rie?, 
And there I left for witness an arm and a limb; 
Yet let my country need me, witli Elliot to head me, 
I'd clatter on my stumps at the sound of a drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c 

And now though I must beg with a wooden arm and leg. 
And many a tatter'd nig hanging over my hum, 
I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle and my callet, 
As when I used iu scarlet to follow a drum. 

Lai de diiudle, &c 

What tho' with hoary locks I must stand the winter sho.-ks, 
Beneath the woods and rocks oftentimes for a home, 
When the tother bag 1 sell, and the tother bottle tell, 
I could meet a troop of lioU at the sound of a drum, 

Lai de daudle &c. 

EECITATIVO. 

He ended ; and the kebars sheuk, 

Aboon the chorus roar ; 
While frighted rattons backward leuk, 

And seek the benmost bore ; 

A fairy fiddler frae the ncuk 

He skirl'd out " Encore ! " 
But up arose tlie martial chuck, 

And laid the loud uproar. 

i-lB, 

TvNT.— Soldier Laddie. 

I once was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when, 
And still my delight is m proper young men ; 
Some one of a troop of drsigoous was my daddie. 
No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. 

Sing Lai de ral, Ac 

The first of my loves was a swaggering hlade, 
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade! 
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy. 
Transported I was with my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lai de lal, &c 

But the godly old chaplain left hiin in the lurch, 
The sword I forsook for the sake of the church; 
He ventur'd the soul, and I risk'd the body — 
'Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. 

Sing Lal, de lal, &c 



15S Buaas s poetical wobss. 

Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot, 
TJie regiment at krge for a husband I got ; 
EVom the gilted spontoon to the life I was ready, 
I asked no more but a sodser laddie. 

Sing, Lai de lal, &c. 

But the peace it redoc'd nie to beg in despair. 
Till I met my old boy at Cunnmgham fair j 
His rags regimental they flutter'd so gaudy, 
My heart it rejoiced at a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal, de lal, &c 

And now 1 have lived — I know not how long, 

And still I can join in a cup and a song ! 

But whilst with both han(^ I can hold the glass steady, 

Here's to thee, my hero, my sodgor laddie. 

Sing, Lal, de lal, &c 

MBCIXATIVO. 

Poor Merry Andrew in the neuk. 

Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler hizxie ; 
They mind't na wha the chorus teuk 

jietween themselves they were saebusy ; 
At length wi' drink and courting dizzy, 

He soiter'd up and made a face ; 
Then turn'd, and laid a smack on Grizzie. 

Syne timed his pipes wi* grave gnmace. 

4IB. 

Tusk — Auld Sir Symon. 
Sir Wisdom^s a fool when he's fou. 

Sir Knave is a fool in a session : 
He's there but a 'prentice 1 trow. 

But I am a fool by profession. 

My grannie she bought me a beuk, 
And I held awa to the school ; 

I fear my talent misteuk. 

But what will ye hue of a fool ? 

For drink I would venture my neck, 
A hizzie's the half o' my craft. 

But what could ye other expect. 
For ane that's avowedly daft ? 

1 ance was tied up hke a stirk. 

For civilly swearing and quaffin' ; 
I ance was abus'd in the kirk. 
For touzling a lass i' my daffin. 

Poor Andrew, that tumbles for sport, 
Let naebody name with a jeer; 

There's ev'n, I'm taught, i' the court 
A tumbler ca'd the 'premier. 



THE JOLLT BEGGAES. 157 

Observ'd ye, j'on reverend lad 
Maks faces to tickle the mob ; 

He rails at our mountebank squad- 
It's rivalship just :' the job. 

Aiid now my conclusioc 7 'II tell, 

For faith I'm confoundally dry: 
The chiel that's a fool for himsel', 

Guid L— d ! he's far daiter than I. 

EECITATIVO. 

Then neist outspak a rancle carlin, 
•^ Wha keut fu' weel to clock the sterling. 
For raoniea pursic she had hooked, 
And had in monie a well been ducked. 
Her dove had been a Highland laddie, 
But weary fa' the wael'u' woodie ! 
Wi' sighs and sohs she thus began 
To wail her braw John Highlandman. 

AIE. 
Tune — 0}^ an ye were dead, Guidina<t» 

A Highland lad my love was born, 
The Lawland laws he held in scorn ; 
But he still was faithfu' to his clan, 
My gallant braw John Highlandn:an. 

CHORUS. 

Sing hey, my braw John Highlandman ! 
Sing ho, my braw John Highlandman ! 
There's not a lad in a' the Ian' 
Was match for my John Highlandman. 

With his philabeg and tartan plaid. 
And giud claj-more down by his side, 
The ladies' hearts he did trepan, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 

Sing hey, &c 
W? ranged a' from Tweed to Spej', 
And liv'd lik; lords and ladies gay; 
For a Lawland face he feared none. 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 

Sing hey, &c 

They bauish'd him beyond the sea, 
But ere the bud was on the tree 
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran, 
Embracing my John Highlandman. 

Sing liey, Ac. 
But, oh, they catcli'd him at the last, 
And bound him in a dungeon fast ; 



J58 BUKNS'S VOETICAL WORKS. 

My curse upon tliem every one, 
They've hang'd my braw young Highlandraaiw 
Sing hey, &c 

And now a widow I mvist mourn, 
The pleasures that will ne'er return ; 
No comfort but a hearty can, 
When 1 think on John Highlandman. 
sing hey, &c 

fiECITATIVO. 

A pigmy scraper, wi' his fiddle, 

Wlia us'd at trusts and fairs to driddle. 

Her strappin' limb, and gaucy middle * 

(llereach'd iia bigher) 
Had hol'd his heartie like a iddle, 

And blawn/t on tire. 

Wi' hand on haunch, and upward e'e 
He croon'd his gamut, one, two, three, 
Then in an arioso key, 

The wee Apollo 
Pet off wi' allegretto glee 

His giga solo. 

AIE. 

IVTXS—WJnetle o'er the lave o*t 

Let me vyke up to dight that tear. 
And go wi' me and he my dear. 
And xhen you every care and fear 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 

CHORUS. 

I am a fiddler to my trade. 
And a' the tunes that e'er I play'd. 
The sweetest still to wife or maid, 
Was whistle o er the lave o't. 

At kirns and weddings we'se be there^ 
And oh, sae nicely we will fare : 
We'll bouse about till Daddie Care 
Sings whistle owre the lave o't. 
I am, &a 

Sae merrily the banes we'll pyke. 
And sun oursels about the dyke. 
And at our leisure, when ye like,^ 
We'll whistle o'er the lave o't. 

I am, &C. 

But bless me wi' your heaven o' charmi^ 
And while I kittle hair on thairms. 



THE JOLLY BFQGAES. 159 


Hun£?er, canld, and a' sic harms. 
Maj' whistle owve the hive o't. 

I am, &c. 


RECITATIVO. 


Her charms liad stiuck ?. sturdy cair'd 

As wecl lus poor Kut-scraper ; 
He taks the fiddler by tlic beard 

And draws a roosty rapier^ i 


He had no wish but— to be glad, 

Nor want but — when he thirsted; 1 
He had nought but — to be sad, 

And thus the Muse suggested 

His sang that niglit 


AIR. 


Tune— J'ur* a' ihat, and a' that. 


I am a bard of no regard 
Wi' gentle folks and a' that : 

Bui Homer-like, the glowrin' byke, 
Frac town to town I draw that. 


cnoRUS. 


For a' that, and a' that, j 

And twice as niuckle's a' that; 
I've lost but aue, I've twa behin,' 

I've wife eneugh for a' that. 1 

I never drank the Muses' stank, 

Castalia's burn and a' that ; 
But there it streams, and richly reams, 

My Helicon I ca' that, 

For a' that, &c. 


Great love I bear to a' the fair, 
Their humble slave and a' that; 

But lordly will, I hold it still, 
A mortal sin to thraw that, 

For a' that, &c. 


In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, 
Wi' mutual love and a' that ; 

But for how lang the flee may stang 
Let inclination law that. 

For a' tliat, &c, 


Their tricks and craft have put me daffc^ 
They've ta'en me in, and a' that ; 

But clear yoiu- decks, and here's the sex 
I like the jads for a' that. 



160 BFENS'S POETICAL ^OKKS. 



For a' that, and a' tliat, 
And twice as muckle's a' that ; 

My dearest bluid, to do them giiid. 
They welcome till't for a' that. 

EECITATIVO. 

So sang the hard — and Nansie's wa's 
Shook with a wonder of applause, 

Re-echo'd from each mouth ; 
They toom'd their pocks, and pawn'd their dndiu 
They scarcely left to co'er their fuds, 

To quench their lowin' drougth. 
Then owre again, the jovial thrang, 

The poet did request. 
To loose his pack and wale a sang, 
A tailad o' the best. 
He rising, rejoicing, 

Between his twa Deborahs, 
Looks round him, and found them 
Impatient for the chorus, 

AIR. 

Tvsv—JoUi/ Mortals, fill your glauM,. 

See ! the smoking bowl before us, 

Mark our iavial ragged ring ! 
Round and round take up the chorus, 

And in raptures let us sing. 



A fig for those by law protected I 

Liberty's a glorious feast ! 
Courts for cowards were erected, 

Churches built to please the priest. 

What is title ? what is treasure ? 

What is reputation's care ? 
If we lead a life of pleasure, 

'Tis no matter how or where. 

A fig, &C. 

With the ready trick and fable. 
Round we wander all the day : 

And at night, in barn or stable. 
Hug our doxies on the hay. 

Afig,&o. 

Does the tfain-attended carriage 
Through the country lighter rove ? 

Does the sober bed of marriage 
Witness brighter scenes of love ? 

A fig, &c. 



MAN WAS MADE TO MOUBW. 1<J1 

ife is all a variorum, 
"We regard not how it frees ; 
Let them cant al)out decorum 
"Wlio have characters to lose. 

ASg, &a 

Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets, 
Here's to all the wandering train ; 
Here's our ragged brats and callets, 
One £Jid all cry out — Amen ! 
A fig for thosn bj-- law protected ! 

Liberty's a glorious feast ! 
Courts for cowards were erected, 
Churches built to please the priest. 



Mu ms luato tn Mmm 

A DIEfcfE. 

When chill November's surly blast 

Made fields avid forests bare, 
One ev'ning as I wandered forth 

Along the banks of Ayr, 
I spied a man whose aged step 

Seem'd \\'car3^, worn with care ; 
His face was furrow'd o'er with yean, 

And hoary was his hair. 

** Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou ? 

Began the rev'reud sage : 
** Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain. 

Or youthful pleasure's rage ? 
Or haply, prest \vith cares and woes. 

Too soon thou hast b:3giin 
To wander forth with me to mourn 

The miseries of man. 

The sun that overhangs yon moors. 

Outspreading far and wide, 
Where hundreds labour to support 

A haughty lordhng's pride ; 
I've seen yon wearj' \vinter sun 

Twice forty times return, 
And ev'ry time has added proofs 

That man was made to raouru. 



Oh man, while in thy early yeaw, 

How prodigal of time! 
Jli^^^spending ail thy precious hours. 

Thy glorious, youthful prime ! 

' 11 p 



BL'IvNSS POKTICAL WORKS. 

Alternate follies take the sway ; 

Licentious passions burn ; 
With tenfold force gives nature's law. 

That man was made to mourn. 

Look not alone en j'outhful prime, 

Or nianliood's active might ; 
Man then is useful to his kind, 

Supportod is his right ; 
But see him on the etlge of life, 

With caves and sorrc^ws worn : 
Then age and want — oh ! ill-match'd pair ! 

Sliow man was made to mourn. 

A few seem favourites of fate, 
In pleasure's hip oarest ; 

Yet, think not all the rich and great 
Are likewise truly l)k'st. 

But, oh ! what crowds in every land, 
All wretched and forlorn, 

Through wear}' life this lesson learn- 
That man was made to mourn. 

Manj-- and sharp the num'rous ills 

Inwoven with our frame, 
More pointed still we make ourselves 

Regret, remorse, aiid shame ; 
And man, whose heaven-erected fac« 

The smiles of love adoni, 
Man's inhumanity to man 

Makes countless thousands mourn. 

See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, 

So abject, mean, and vile, 
Wlio begs a brother of the earth 

Tt) give him leave to toil ; 
And see his lordly fellow worm 

The poor petition spimi. 
Unmindful, though a weeping wife 

And helpless offspring moiu'n. 

If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave-- 

By nature's lav/ design'd — 
Why was an independent wish 

E'er planted in my mind ? 
If not, why am I suljject to 

His cruelty or scorn ? 
Or why has man the will and powe 

To make his fellow n)Ourn ? 

Yet, let not this too much, my son, 
Disttn-b thy youthful breast ; 

This partial view of human kind 
Is sm-ely not the last I 



TO A MOUSE. 163 

The poor, oppressed, honest raaa 

Had never, sure, been born. 
Had there not been some recompense 

To comfort those that mom-n ! 

Oh Death ! the poor man's dearest friend. 

The kindest and the best ! 
Welcome the hour my aged limbs 

Are laid 'vith thee at rest ! 
The great, the 'vealthj^ fear thy blow, 

Prom nomp and pleasure torn ! 
^ut, oh ! a blest relief to those 

That, vveai'v-laden, mourn ! ** 



^n K Mnm, 

Oir TURNING- UP HES NEST WITH HIS PLOUGH, 

November, 1785. 

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, 
Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
Thou need na start awa sae hastj', 

Wi' bickering brattle ! 
I wad bo laith to rin and chase thee, 

Wi' murd'ring prattle ! 

I'm titily sorrow man's dominion 
Has broken nature's social union, 
And justifies that ill opinion, 

Wliicli makes thee startle 
At me, thy poor earth-born companion. 

And fellow-mortal ! 

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; 
What then, boor beastie, thou maun live! 
A daimeu icker in a thrave 

s' a sma' request : 
I'll get a blessin' wi' the laive. 

And never miss't . 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin' ! 
And naething now to big a new ane, 

0' foggage green ; 
And bleak December's winds ensuin', 

Baith snell and keen ! 

Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste^ 
And weary winter comin' fast, 
And cozie here, beneath the blast, 

Thou thought to dwell. 
Till, crash ! the cruel coulter past 

Out thro' thy cell. 



164 



BURNS & l'6KilCx\.L W0EK8. 

That wee bit heop o' leaves and stibble, 
Has cost thee inouy a weary nibble ! 
Now thou's tin-u'd out for a' thy troub-t- 

But house or bald, 
To thole the winter's sleety ilribble, 

And cranreuch cavild ! 

But, monsie, thou art no thy lane, 
In proving ibresight may be vain : 
The best-iaid schemes o' mice and m^n 

Gang, aft a-gley, 
And lea'e us nought but grief and pain, 

For promis'd joy. 

Still thou ai-t blest, compar'd wi' me! 
The present only toucheth thee : 
But, och 1 I backward cast my e'e, 

On prospects drear ! 
And forward, tho' I canna see, 

I guess and fear. 



DUAN riEST. 

The sun had clos'd the winter day, 
The curlers qnat their roaring play. 
And hunger'd maukin ta'en her way 

To kail-yards green. 
While faithless snaws ilk step betray. 

Y/hare she has been, 

The thresher's weary flingin' tree 
The lee-lang day had tir'd me ; 
And when the day had clos'd. his e'e. 

Far i' the west, 
Bcu i' the spence right pensivehe, 

I gacd to rest. 

There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, 
I sat and ey'd the spewing reek, 
That hil'd wi' lioast-provoking smeek, 

The auldclay biggin'; 
And heard the restless rations squeak 



All In the niottie, misty clime, 
I backward njus'd on wasted time, 
How I had spent my youthfu' prim^ 

And done iiae thing, 
But stringin' blethers up in rhyme. 

For fools to sing. 



THE VISION. 164 

Had I to guid advice hut harkit. 
I might by this hae led a market, 
Or strutted in a bank and clarkit 

My cash account : 
While here, lialf mad, half fed, half Barkit 

Is a' th' amount. 

I started, mutt'ring, blockhead ! coof! 
And hoav'd on lii-h my waukit loot', 
To swear b}- a' 3on starry roof, 

Or some rasli aith, 
That I hencefortli would be rhyme-proof 

Till my last breath — 

Y^ien, click ! the string the snick did draw 
And, gee ! the door gaed to the wa' ; 
And by m^' ingle-lowe I saw, 

Now bleczin' bright, 
A tight, outlandish hiz/ie, braw, 

Come full in sight. 

Ye needna doubt, I held my whist ; 
The infant aith, half-form'd, wascrusht; 
I glowr'd as ecrie's I'd been dusht 

In some wild glen ; 
Wlieu sweet, like modest wo'i-th she blusht 

A nd stepped ben. 

jfreen, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs 
Were twisted gracefu' round her brows ; 
I took her for some Scottish Muse, 
By that same token, 
And come to stop those reckless vows, 
VVou'd soon been broken. 

A " hair-brain'd, sentimental trace" 
Was strongly marked in her face ; 
A wildly-witty, rustic grace 

Shone full upon her; 
Her eye ev'n turn'd on empty space, 

Beam'd keen with honoi*. 

Down flow'd her robe a tartau sheen, 
Till half a leg was scrimply seen ; 
And such a leg ! my bouuie Jean 

Could only peer it ; 
Sae thought, sae taper, tight, and clean, 

Nane else came near it. 

Her mantle large, of greenish hue. 

My gazing wonder chieliy tlrew ; 

Deep liglus and sliades, bold -mingling, threir 

A lustre grand ; 
And seemed to my astoni.-hM view, 

A wcli-kuown land. 



IQQ i*t.'.«..-ih S i'Oi/i'ivJAi. WC'itKS. 

Here, rivers m the sea were lost; 
There, miiuntains lo the skies were tost; 
Here, tumblinir billows mark'd the coast 

With surging foam ; 
Ihere, distant shoue Art's lofty boast, 

Tlie lordly dome. 

Here Doon pour'd down his far-Mcli'd floods. 
There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds: 
And hermie Aj^r staw thro' his woods, 

On to the shore, . 
And man}'- a lesser ton'ent scuds. 

With seeminj; roar. 

Low in a sandy valley spread, 

An ancient borough reai-'d her head, 

Still, as in Scottish story reaa, 

She boasts a race, 
To ev'ry nobler virtue bred, 

And Dohsh'd grace. 

By stately tow'r or palace lair, 

Or ruins pendant in the air, 

Bold steins of heroes, here and there, 

I could discern ; 
Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dai^ 

With feature stem. 

My heart did glowing transport feel, 

To see a race heroic wheel, 

And brandish round the deep-dy'd steel 

In sturdy blows ; 
While back recoiling seem'd to reel 

Their suthron foes. 

His Country's Saviour, mark him well 1 
Bold Richardtou's heroic swell ; 
The chief on Sark, who glorious fell 

In high command ; 
And he whom ruthless fates expel 

His native land. 

There, where a sceptr'd Pictish shad» 
Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, 
I mark'd a martial race, portray'd 

In colours strong ; 
Bold, soldisr-featur'd, undismay'd, 

Thev strode along. 

Thro* many a wild romantic grove. 
Near many a hermit-fancied cove. 



TUB VISION. 167 



With dcnp-ftriiok, reverential awe 
The lear'iod sire and son I saw, 
To Nature's God and Nature's law 

They gave tlieir lore, 
This, all its soiuro and end to draw, 

Tliat, to adore. 

Brydone's br i ^e ward I well could spf. 
Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye ; 
Who call'd on Fame, low standing bj, 

To baud him on, 
Wlicre many a patriot-name on high 

And liero shone, 

DUAN SECOND. 

With musing dcej), fistonisb'd stare, 
I view'd the heavenly-seeming fair 
A whisp'ring throli did witness bear 

Of kindred sweet, 
When, witli an elder sister's air, 

She did me greet. 

" All hail ! my own iiispir'd bard ! 
In me thy native Muse regard! 
Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, 

Thus })oorly low ! 
I come to give thee such regard 

As we bestav,'. 

Know, the great genius of this laud 
Has many a light aerial band. 
Who, all beneath his high command. 

Harmoniously, 
As arts or arms they understand, 

Their labours ply. 

They S(^otia's race among them share; 
Some fire the soldier on to dare ; 
Some raise the patriot on to bare 

Corruption's heart ; 
Some teach the bard, a darling care, 

The tuneful art. 

'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore^ 
They, ardent, kindling spirits, pour, 
Or, 'mid the venal senate's roai. 

They, sightless, stand. 
To mend the honest patriot lore, 

And grace the hand. 

And when the bard, or hoary sage. 
Charm or iustrui:t tlie future age. 



BXJENS S POETICAX WOMat 

They bind tho wild, poetic rage 

In energy, 
Or point tlie inconclusive page 

Full ou the eye. 

Hence Fullarton, the brave and young; 
Hence Dempster's zeal-inspir'd tongue ; 
Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung 

His ' Minstrel Lays : ' 
Or tore, with nobler ai'dour stung, 

The sceptic's bays. 

To lower orders are assigri'd 

The humbler ranks of human-kind, 

The rustic bard, the lab'ring hind, 

The artizan ; 
All choose, as various they're inclin'd, 

The various man. 

"When yellow waves the heavy grain, 
. The threat'ning storm some strongly reinj 
Some teach to meliorate the plain, 

With tillage skill; 
And some instruct the shepherd train, 
Blythe o'er the hill. 

Some hint the lover's harmless wile ; 
Some grace the maiden's artless smile; 
Some soothe the lab'rer's weary toil, 

For humble gains, 
And make his cottage scenes beguile 

His cares and pains. 

Some, bounded to a district space. 
Explore at large man's infant race, 
To mark the embryotic trace 

Of rustic bard ; 
And careful note each op'ning grace, 

A guide and guard. 

Of these am I — Coila my name ; 
And this district as mine I claim, 
Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fama^ 

Held ruling pow'r : 
I mark'd thy embryo tuneful flame. 

Thy natal hour. 

With future hope, I oft would gaze. 
Fond, on thy little eai'ly ways. 
Thy rud«!-v-car(iH'd, chiming phrase, 

In uiicouth rhjTnes, 
Fir d at the simple, artless lays. 

Of other times, 

I saw thee seek the sounding shore, 
Dehghted with the dashing roar ; 

V 



THE VliSION. Ig9 

Or •when the north his fleecy store 

Drove througli the sky, 
I saw grim nature's visage hoar 

Struck thy young eye. 

Or when the deep green-mantled earth 
Warm cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's hirth, 
And joy and music pouring forth 

In ev'ry grove, 
I saw thee eye the general mirth 

With bomidless love. 

Wlien ripen'd fields, and azure skies, 
Call'd forth the reaper's rustUng noise, 
I saw thee leave their evening joys, 

And lonely stalk, 
To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 
In pensive walk. 

When j-outhful love, warm-blushing, strong 
Keen-shivering shot tliy nerves along. 
Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, 

Th' adored Name, 
I taught thee how to pour in song, 

To soothe thy flame. 

I saw thy pulse's maddening play. 
Wild send thee pleasure's devious way, 
Misled by fanc3'^'s meteor-ray. 

By passion driven ; 
But yet the light that led astray 

Was hght from Heaven. 

I taught thy manners-painting strains, 
The loves, the ways of simple swains. 
Tin now, o'er all my wide domains 

Thy fame extends ; 
And some, the pride of Coila's plains. 

Become thy friends. 

Thou canst not learn, nor can I show. 
To paint with Thomson's landscape glow ; 
Or wake the bosom-melting throe. 

With Shenstone's-^rt ; 
Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow 

Warm on the heart. 

Yet all beneath the unrivall'd rose, 

The lowly daisy sweetly blows ; 

Tho' large the forest's monarch throws 

His army shade. 
Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, 

Adown the glade. 

Then never murmur nor repine ; 
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine ; 



170 BURNS S POETICAL WORKS. 

And, trust me, not Potosi's mine, 
Nor king's regard. 

Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, 
A rustic bard. 

To give my counsels all in one — 
Thy tuneful ilame stiil careful fan ; 
Preserve the diijuity of man. 

With so;il erect ; 
And trust, the universal plan 

With all protect. 

And wear thou" — she solemn said, 
And bound the holly round my head* 
The polish'd leaves, and berries red, 

. Did rustling play ! 
And, like a passing thought, she fled 
lu light away. 



ati? Sliitjiur's (15ariic5tCri| aiii }km 

XO THE SCOTCH KEPRESENTATIVES IN THE HOlTai 

OF COilMONS. 

" Dearest of distillation ! last and best ! 
How art thou lost 1"— parody on milton. 

Ye Irish lords, ye knights and squires 
Wha represent our brughs aud shires, 
And doucely manage our aflairs 

In parliament. 
To you a simple bardie's prayers 
* Are humbly sent. 

Alas ! my roopit ]\Iuse is hearse ! 

Your honour's heart wi' grief 'twad pierc^ 

To see her sittin' on her a^ 

Low i' the dust. 
And scriechin' out prosaic verse, 

Aud like to brust ! 

Tell them wha hae the chief direction, 
Scotland and me's in great allliGtion,^ 
E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction 

On aqua vitse ; 
And rouse them up to strong conviction. 

And move their \nty. 

Stand forth, and tell yon Premier youtll, 

The honest, open, naked truth : 

Tell him o' mine aud Scotland's drouth. 

His servants humble i 
The muckle devil blaw ye south, 

If ye dissemble 1 



•rilE AUTHOR'S EARNEST CKT. 171 

Doesony great man glunch and giooraP 
Speak out, and nevtr fas your thoomi 
Let posts and pensions sink or sooia 

Wi' til em wha grant '«■• 
If honestly they canna come. 

Fur better want "em, 

Tn gathrin' votes you were na slacK 
Now stand as tiglitly by your tacs ; 
Ne'er claw your lug, and iidge your back, 

And liuiu and haw: 
But raise your :nni, and tell your crack 

Before tiiem »'. 

Paint Scotland greetnig ower her thrissle^ 
Her mutchkin stoup a toom's a whissle ; 
And d-mn'd Excisemen in a bussle. 

Seizin' a stell, 
TriunQphiant crushin't like a mussel 

Or lampit shekL 

Then on the tither hand present her, 

A blackguard smuggler, right belu'nt hw. 

And cheek-for-cliow, a chntiic vintor, 

CoUeaguing join, 
Picking her pouch as have as winiwr 

Of a' kind com. 

Is there that bears the name o' Seal;, 
But feels his heart's-bluid rising hd. 
To see his poor auld raither's pox 

Thus dung in staves. 
And plunder'd o' her hindmost groat 

By gallows knaves i 

Alas! I'm but a nameless Vi/ight, 

Trod i' the mire out of sight ! 

But could I like Montgomeries fight. 

Or gab like Bos well, 
There's some sark-necks I wad draw lij;!!:^ 

And tie some hose well, 

God bless your honours, can ye see't, 
The kind, auld, cantie carlin greet, 
And no get warmly to your feet. 

And gar them hear it. 
And tell them, with a patriot hasSt 

Ye wiuna bear ic 

Some 0* you nicely ken the laws. 
To round the period and pause, 
And wi' rhetoric ciau<e on clause 

So niak harangues; 
Then echo through St. Stephen's wa'i 

Auld Scotland's wraofs. 



171 JWENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

fe^ieinpster, a true blue Scot I'se warrfvn 
Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran, 
And that glib-gabbet Highland baron, 

The Laird o' Graham, 
And ane, a chap that's d-mn'd auldfarriin 

Dundas his name. 

Erskiue, a spuukie Norland billie, 
True Campbells, Frederick and Ilay ; 
And Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie } 

And monie itliers, 
Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully 

May'n own for brithers. 

See sodger Hugh, my watchmen stented, 

If bardies e'er were repre.sented ; 

I ken if that your sword were wanted, 

Ye'd lend a hand, 
But when there's aught to say anent it, 

Ye're at a stand. 

Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle, 
To get auld Scotland back her kettle ; 
Or faith, I'll -wad my now pleugh-pcttle, 

Ye'll see't ere lang. 
She'll teach you, wi' a rockiu' whittle, 

Anither sang. 

This while she's been in crankus mood, 
Her lost militia fir'd her hluid ; 
(Deil na they never mair do guid, 

Play'd her that pliskiel) 
And now she's like to run red-wud 

About her whisky. 

And, L — d ! if ance they pit her till't, 
Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt. 
And durk and pistol at her belt. 

She'll tak the streets. 
And rin her whittle to the hilt, 

r the first she meets! 

For G-d sake, sirs, then speak her fair, 
And straik her cannie wi' the hair, 
And to the muckle house repair, 

Wi' instant speed ; 
And strive, wi' a' your wit and loar. 

To get remead. 

Yon ill-tongued tinkler, Charlie Fox, 
May taunt you wi' his jeers and mockt| 
But gie him't bet, my hearty cocks f 

E'en cowe the cadie 1 
An' send him to his dicing box 

And sportin' lady. 



THE AUTflOR'S EAUN'KST CRY. 178 

Tell yon guid bluid o' aiild Boconnock's, 

I'll be his debt twa mashlura bonnocks, 

And drink his health in auld Naiiso Tiuuock'i 

* Nine times a week, 

If he some scheme, like tea and winnocks. 
Wad Idndlj' seek. 

Could he some commutation broach, 
I'll pledge ray aith in guid braid Scotch. 
He'U need na fear their I'oul reproach. 

Nor erudition, 
Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch, 

The Coalition. 

Auld Scotland has a rancle tongue ; 
She's just a devil wi' a rung ; 
And if she promise auld or young 

To tak their part, 
Though by the neck she should bo strung. 

She'll no desert. 

And now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty, 
May still your mither's heart support ye; 
Then, tho' a minister grow dorty, 

And kick yoiu- place, 
Ye'll snap your lingers, poor and hearty 

Before his face. 

God bless your honours a' your days, 
Wi' sowps o' kail and brats o' claise, 
In spite o' a' the thievish kaes. 

That haunt St. Jamies ! 
Your humble Poet sings and praj-s 

While Eab his name is. 



POSTSCBIPT. 

Let half-starv'd slaves in warmer skies 
See future wines rich clust'ring rise ; 
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies, 

But, blythe and frisky, 
She eyes herfree])orn, martial boys 

Tak afl' their whisky. 

Wliat though their Phoebus kind*i- wanna, 
While fi-agrance blooms and beauty charms. 
When wretches range, in famish'd swarms, 

The scented groves, 
Or hounded forth, dishonour arms 

In hungry droves. 

Their gun's a burthen on their shoulther, 
They downa bide the stink o' powther • 

q3 



174 BUKKS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

Their bauldest thouofht's a hank'ring swithof 

To Stan' or rin, 
Till skelp — a shot — they're aff, a' throwther. 

To save their skin. * 

But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, 
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, 
Say such is royal George's will, 
And there's the foe, 
He has nae thought but how to kUl 
Twa at a blow. 

Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him 
Death conies — wi' fearless eye he sees him ; 
Wi' bluidy han' a welcome gies him ; 

And when he fa's, 
His latest dral't o' breathing lea'es him 

In taint huzzas ! 

Sages their solemn een may steek, 
And raise a philosophic reek, 
And physically causes seek. 

In cliuie and season : 
But tell me whisky's name in Greek, 

I'll tell the reason. 

Scotland, my anld, respected niither, 
Tho' whiles ye moistiiy your leatJier, 
Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather 

Ye tine your dam ; 
Freedom and whisky gang thegithcr !— 

Take afl' your dram ! 



^rntrlj Brink. 



** Gie him strong drink, until he wink, 

That's sinking in despair; 
And liquor guid ^o fire his bluid, 

That's prest ^\■i' grief and care ; 
There let him bouse, and deep carouse, 

Wi' bumpers flowing o'er, 
Till he forgets his loves or debts. 

And minds his griefs no more." 

Solomon's pkoverb, xxxi, 6, 7. 

Lux other poets raise a fracas, 

'Bout vines, and wines, and dru'ken Baccliua, 

And crdbbit names and stories wrack us, 

And grate our lug, 
I sing the juice Scotch betr can mak us, 

In g-iass or jug. 



scoxcir UK IMC. 175 

Oh thou, my ]\Iusc ! g-iiid auld Hcotdi drink; 
Whether thro' wiiuplin' worms thou jink. 
Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink. 

In glorious facm, 
Inspire me, till I lisp and wink, 

To sing thy name ! 

Let husky wheat the haughs adorn, 
And aits "sit up their awnie horn, 
And peas and beans, at e'en or morn. 

Perfume the plain, 
liCeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, 

Thou king o' grain ! 

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, 
In souple scones, the wale o' food ! 
Or tumblin' in the boilin' flood 

Vv'i' kail and beef ; 
But when thou pour thy strong heart's blood, 

There thou shines chief. 

Food fills the wame, and keeps us livin' ; 
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin', 
When heav}' dragg'd wi' pine and grievin* 

But, oil'd b}- thee, 
The wheels o' hfe gae down-hill scrievin', 

Wi' ratthn' glee. 

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear : 
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care; 
Thou strings the nerves o' Labom* sair, 

At's weary toil ; 
Thou even brightens dark Despair 

Wi' gloomy smile. 

Aft clad in massy siller weed, 
Wi' gentles thou erects thy liead ; 
Yet humbly kind in time o' need, 

The poor man's wine, 
His w^ee drap parritch, or his bread, 

Thou kitchen's fine. 

Thou art the life o' public haunts ; 

But thee, what were our fairs and rants ? 

Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts, 

By thee inspir'd. 
When gaping they besiege the tents, 

Ai-e doubly fir'd. 

That merry night we get the corn in. ^ 
Oh sweetly then thou reams the homi in. 
Or reekin' on a new-year morning 

In cog or bicker, 
Andjust a wee drap sp'ritual hum in., 

And gusty sucker t 



176 BURNS S POETICAL WOUKS. 

When Vulcan gies liis bellows breath. 
And ploughmen gather wi' then* graith, 
Oh rare ! to see thee fizz and freath 

I' the lugget caup ! 
Then Burncwin comes ou like death 

At ev'ry chap. 

Nae mercy, then, for air or steel ; 
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel, 
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel. 

The strong forehammer, 
Till block and studdie ring and reel 

Wi' dinsome clamour. 

When skirlin' weanies see the hght, 
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright. 
How fumblin' cuifs their dearies sUght ; 

Wae worth the name ! 
Nae howdie gets a social night, 

Or plack frae them. 

When neebors anger at a plea, 
And just as wud as wud can be, 
How easy can the barley -bree 

Cement the quarrel ! 
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee, 

To taste the barrel. 

Alake ! that e'er my Muse has reason 
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason ! 
But monie daily weet their weason 

Wi' liquors nice. 
And hardly, in a winter's season. 

E'er spier her price. 

Wae worth that brandy, burning trash I 
Fell soiircc o' monie a pain and brash ; 
Twins monie a poor, doylt, drucken hash, 

O' half his days; 
And sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash 

To her warst faes. 

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well, 
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell. 
Poor plackleas devils like mysel, 

It sets you ill, 
Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to raell, 

Or foreign gill. 

May gravels round his blather wrenck 
And gouts torment him inch by inch, 
Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch 

0' sour disdain, 
Out owre a glass o' whisky punch 

Wi' honest men ! 



SCOTCH PKINK. 

Oh whisky ! soul o' plan's and pranks I 
Accept a Bardie's gratcfu' thanks ; 
When wanting- thee what tuneless crank* 

Are uiy poor verses ! 
Thou comes— tliey rattle i' their ranks 

At ither's a— ! 

Tliee, Ferintosh, oh sadly lost ! 
Scotland lament fi'om coast to coast; 
Now colic grips, and barkin hoast. 

May kill us a' ; 
For loyal Forbes'' charter'd boast, 

Is ta'en awa ! 

Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise, 
Wlia mak the whisky stells their prize, 
Haud up thy ban', Deil, ance, twice, thrice! 

There, se'ze the blinkers ! 
And bake thein up in brunstane pies 

For poor d— n'd dnnkers. 
Fortune, if thou'll but gie me still 
Hale breoks, a scone, and whisky gill, 
And rowth o' rhyme to rave at w2l, 

Tak a' the rest, 
And deal't about as thy blind skill 

Directs the best. 



177 



3Mim tn tfiB anm #nflr, 

OE THE EIGIDLT EIGHTEOT78. 

" My .son, these maxims make a rule, 

And lump them aye thegither j 
The Rigid Righteous is a fool, 

Tho Rigid Wise auither; \ 
The cleanest corn that e'er was dight 

May hae some pyles o' caff in ; 
So ne'er a fellow -creature slight 

For random fits o' daffin." 

Solomon — Eccles. vii. 16- 

Oh ye wha are sae guid yoursel, 

Sae pious and sae holy, 
Te've nought to do but mark and tell 

Tour neebor's fauts and folly ! 
Whase life is like a well-gaun mill. 

Supplied wi' store o' water, 
The heaped happer's ebbing still. 

And still the clap plays clatter. 

Hear me, ye venerable core, 

Ab counsel for poor mortals. 
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door 

For glaikot Folly's portals : 
12 ' 



Tj for tlieir thoughtless, careless sakes, 
Would here propone defences, 

Their donsie tricks, their black mistakeB, 
Their failings and mischances. 

Ye see your state \vi' theirs compar'd, 

And shudder at the uiffer. 
But cast a moment's fair regard, 

What maks the mighty differ ? 
Discount what scant occasion gave 

That purity ye pride in. 
And (what's aft mair than a' the la^t,) 

Your better art o' hiding. 

Think, when your castigated pulse 

Gies now and then a wallop. 
What ragings must his veins convulse, 

That still eternal g>allop ; 
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, 

Right on ye scud j'our sea-way ; 
But iu the teeth o' baith to sail, 

It maks an imco lee-way. 

See social life and glee sit down, 

All joyous and unthinking. 
Till, quite transmugrified, they're growl 

Debauchery and di'inking : 
Oh, woidd they stay to calcidate 

Th' eternal consequences ; 
Or your more di'eaded hell to state, 

D-mnatiou of expenses ! 

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, 

Tied up in godly laces. 
Before ye gie poor frailty names, 

Suppose a change o' cases : 
A dear-lov'd lad, convenience snug, 

A treacherous inclination — 
But, let me whisper i' your lug, 

Ye're aiblins nae temptation. 

Then gently scan your brother man, 

Still gentler sister woman ; 
Tho' they may gang a kennin' wranft 

To step aside is human : 
One point must still be greatly dark, 

Tne moving why they do it : 
And just as lamely can ye mark. 

How far perhaps they rue it. 

Wlio made the heart, 'tis He alone 

Decidedly can try ns, 
He knows each chord — its yarious tone, 

Each spring — its various bias : 



TAM SAMSON S liLliGY. 174 

Then at the balancf let's be mute, 

We never cariadjust it: 
What's (lone wo partly may compute, 

But know not what's resisted. 



I^aiii lamsmi's <l5Irgn 

* An honest man's the nohlest work oi laod,** 

POFl, 

Has auld Kilmarnock seen the deil? 
Or great M'Kinlay tlirawn his heel? 
Or Robertson a.^ain grown weel, 

To preach and read ? 
** Na, waur than a' ! " cries i!k;i ciiiel— 

Tani Samson's de;id. 

Kilmarnock lang may grunt and grane 
And sigh, and sob, and greet her lane. 
And cleed her bairns, man, wife, and weas 

] n mourning weed ; 
To death she's dearly paid the kane — • 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

The brethren o' the mystic level 
Ma}' hing their head in woefu' bevel, 
While by their nose the tears will revel, 

Like ony head; 
Death's gi'en the lodge an unco devel— 

Tarn Samson's dead i 

When Winter muffles up his cloak, 
And binds the mire like a rock ; 
When to the lochs the curlers flock 

Wi' gleesome speed, 
Wha will they station at the cock ? 

Tarn Samson's dead. 

He was the king o' a' the core, 
To guard, to draw, to wick a bore. 
Or up the rink like Jehu roar 

In time o' need ; 
But now he lags on death's hog-score— 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

Now safe the stately sawmont sail, 

And trouts be-dropp'd wi' crimson hail,— • 

And eels weel kenn'd for souple tail, 

And geds for creed, 
Since dark in death's tish-creel we wail 

Tam Samson deai 

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a' ; 
Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw 



BURNS'S 1'OIiTlCA.L W0BK9. 

JTe maukins, cock j'our fud hv braw, 

Withouteu dread;' 
Your mortal he is now awa' — 

Tarn Samson's dead'. 

That woefu' mourn be ever mourn'd, 
Saw him in shooting graith adorn'd, 
While pointers round inipatient burn'd, 

Frae couples freed; 
But, och, he gaed and ne'er return'd !— 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

In vain old age his body batters ; 

In vain the gout his ancles letters : 

In vain the burns cam' down like waten^ 

An acre braid ! 
Now ev'ry aukl wife, greeting, clatters, 

Tam Samson's dead! 

Owre many a weary hag he limpit. 
And aye the tither shot he thumpit, 
Till coward death behind him jumpit^ 

Wi' deadly feide ; 
Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet, 
Tam Saaisou's dead ! 

Wlien at his heart he felt the dagger. 
He reel'd his wonted l)uttle swagger, 
But yet he drew the mortal trigger 

Wi' weel-aini'd heed; 
" L-d! fire! he cried, and owre did stagger-w 
Tam Samson's dead ! 

Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brithcr ! 
Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father; 
Yon auld grey stane, amang the heather, 

Marks out his head, 
Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

There now he lies in lasting rest ; 
Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast 
Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest. 

To hatch and breed ; 
Alas! na mair he'll them molest !— 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

When August winds the heather wavn, 
And sportsmen wander by yon grave, 
Three vollies let his mem'ry crave 

O' pouther and lead , 
Till echass answer fra her cave, 

Tam Samson's dead I 



DESPONDENCY. XgJ 



Heav'n rest his sau],whareVr he be! 
Is th' wish o' mony mae than me; 
He had twa faut~, or maybe three, 

Yet what rcracad ? 
Ae social, honest man want we : 

Tarn Samson's dead I 



Tam Samson's weel-worn claj' here liaiu 
Ye cantins: zealots spare him ; 

If honest worth in heaven rise, 
Ye'li mend or ye win near him. 

FEU CONTRA. 

Go, Fame, and canter like a filly, 
Thro' a' the streets and ncuks o' Killie, 
Tell ev'ry social, honest Billy 

To cease his grievin', 
For yet, unskaith'd by death's gleg gullie^ 

Tam Samson's iivin' ! 



ijspiitonni:. 



Oppeess'd with grief, oppress'd wiUi card 
A burden more than I can bear, 

I sit me down and sigh : 
Oh hfe ! thou art a galling load. 
Along a rough, a weary road, 

To wretches such as I ! 
Dim backward as I cast my view, 
Wliat sick'ning scenes appear ! 
What sorrows yet maj- pierce me thro* 
Too justly I may fear. 
StiU caring, despairing. 

Must be my bitter doom ; 

My woes here shall close ne'er 

But with the closing tomb -. 

Happy> J^ sons of busy life, 
Who, equal to the bustling strife. 

No other view regard ; 
Ev'n when the wished end's denied. 
Yet while the busy means are pUed; 

They bring their own reward : 
Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight, 

Unfitted with an aim. 
Meet ev'ry sad returning night 

And joyless morn the same : 



483 BURNS'S POETICAL WORK*. 

You, bustliii;? 'ind justling, 
Forget each grief and pain; 
> I listless, yet restless, 

Find every prospect vain. 

How blest the Solitary's lot, 
Who, all forgetting, all forgot, 

"Within his humble cell, 
The cavern wild with tangling roots, 
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits, 

Beside his crj'stal well ! 
Or haply to his cv'ning thouglit, 

Bj' unfrequented stream, 
The waj'S of men are distant brought, 
A faint collected dream : 
While praising- and raising 

His thoughts to Heav'u on high 
As wand'ring, meand'ring, 
He views the solemn sky. 

Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd 
Wliere j, ever human footstep trac'd, 

Less fit to play the j art ; 
The luck;* moment to improve, 
And just to stop, and just to move, 

With self-iespecting art : 
But, ah ! ihose pleasures, loves, and joys. 

Wliich I too keenly taste, 
The Solitai'y can despise, 
Can want, and yet be blest ! 
He needs not, he heeds not, 

Or human love or hate. 
Whilst I here, must cry here 
At perfidy ingrate ! 

Oh, enviable, early days, 

"When dancing, thoughtless pleasure's mtaOt 

To care, to guilt unknown ; 
How ill exchanged for riper times, 
To feel the follies, or the crimes, 

Of others, or my own ! 
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, 

Like linnets in the bush, 
Ye little know the ills ye court, 
When manhood is your wish. 
The losses, the crosses. 

That active man engage ; 
The fears all, the tears all^ 
Of dim declining age ! 



THE COTTEE's SATURDAY NIGHT i.83 

€^t ii\M5 latiirkii lliglit. 

INSCEIBED TO ROBERT AIKIN, ESQ. 

** Let not ambition mock tlieir useful toil, 
Their liomoly joys auddestiny obscure; 

Nor grandeur hoar, with a disdainful smile, 
The short and simi)ie annals of the poor." 

GRAT« 

M-E lov'd, my honoiu-'d, much respected friend. 

No mercenary bard his homage pays ; . 
Witli honest pride I scorn each selfish end ; 

My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise: 
To you I shig, in simple Scottish lays, 

The lowly train in life's scquester'd scene ; 
The native feeUngs strong, the guileless ways ; 

What Aitken in a cottage would have been ; 
Ah! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween. 

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sough ; 

The short'ning winter day is near a close ; 
The miry l^ioa^ts retreating frae the plough ; 

The black'ning train o' craws to their repose ; 
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, 

This night his weekly moil is at an end ; 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, 
And weary o'er the moor his course does hameward beucL 

At length his lonely cot appears in view. 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
The expectant wee things toddlin, stacher through, 

To meet their dad, wi' llichtei-in noise and glee : 
His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bomiily. 

His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile, 
liie Usping infant prattling on his knee. 

Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile, 
And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil 

Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in. 

At service oiit araang the farmers roun',_ 
Some ca' the pleugli, some herd, some tentie rin 

A cannie errand to a ncibor town ; 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grovm, 

ki youthfu' bloom, love sparkUng in her e'e, 
Comes home, perhaps, to show a bra' new gown. 

Or deposit her sair-won penny fee, 
To help her parents dear, if tliey in hardship be. 

With joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, 
And each for other's weelfare kindly spiers : 

The social hours, swift-wing'd, iir.notic'd fleet; 
Each tells the uncos that he sees or heai's ; 



184 BTJENS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 

The parents, partial, eye tlieir tlieir hopeful yefUS} 

Anticipation forv/ard points the view, 
The mother \vi' her needle and her shears, 
Gars auld claes aniaist as weel's the new; 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 

Their master's and their mistress's command, 

The younkers are warned to obey ; 
And mind their labours wi' an eydeut hand, 

And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play; 
** And oh ! be sure to fear the Lord alway ! 

And mind your duty, duly, morn ,and night 1 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang- astray, 

Implore His counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright I** 

But hark ! a rap comes gentl}' to the door, 

Jenny wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
Tells how a neibor lad cam o'er the moor, 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
The wily mother sees tlie conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek, 
Wi' heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name, 

Wliile Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; 
Weel pleas'd the mother hears it's nae wild, worthless rake, 

Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben ; 

A strappin youth ; he taks the mether's e'e; 
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 

The father cracks of horses, ])leughs, and kye. 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, 

But blate and lathefu', scarce can weel behave; 
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 

What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave; 
Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like tho lave. 

Oh happy love ! — where love like this is found ! 

Oh heartfelt raptures ! bHss bcj'ond compare ! 
I've paced much this weary, mortal round, 

And sage experience bids me this declare — 
" If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare. 

One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair 

In other's arms breathe out the tender tale. 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale,* 

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, 

A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth !— 
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art. 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 
Curse on his perjur'd arts ! dissembling smooth I 

Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd ? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child P 
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild? 



XliK COTTJElt's SATUKDAV NIGHT. 185 

But aow the supper crowns their simple hoard, 

The halesame parritch, chief of Scotia's food; 
The soupe their only hawkie does afford, 

That 'yout the haUan snugly chows her cood: 
The dame hrinii-s forth, in complimental mood, 

To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kehluck, fell. 
And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it guid ; 

The frugal witie, garrulous, will tell. 
How 'twas a towmond aula, sin' lint was i' the bell. 

The checrfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 
They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; 

The sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace. 
The big ha'-bible, ance his father's pride; 

His bonnet rev'rently is la'd aside, 

' His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare ; 

Those strains that once did sweet in Zion ghde, 
He wales a portion with judicious care ; 
And " Let us worship God ! " he says, wdth solemn air. 

They chant their artless notes iu simple guise; 

They tune their liearts, by far the noblest aim : 
Perhaps Dundee's wild-w:irl)ling measures rise, 

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name, 
Or noble Elgin beets the h.eaven-ward flame. 

The sweetest far of Scotia'^i boly lays: 
Corapar'd with these, Italiar \i\lls are tame; 

The tickl'd ear no heart-felt I'iDtures raise; 
Kae unison hae they with our CrcAcor's praise. 

The pricst-iike fatlier reads tlie sA-;red page — • 

How Abram was the friend of 0*OD on high; 
Or, ]\Ioses bade eternal warfare wa^^e 

With Anialek's ungracious progrny; 
Or how the rojal bard did groanina lie 

Beneatii the stroke of Heaven's a i "^nging ire ; 
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailinj cry; 

Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire . 
Or other hoi}' seers that tune the sacreJ lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the t^ vne — 

How guiltless blood for guilty man vas r,hed ; 
How He who bore in Heaven the second name. 

Had not on earth whereon to lay his h'^ad : 
How his first followers and servants spei 

The precepts sage the^' wrote to many a land : 
How he, who lone in Patraos banished, 

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; [command. 

And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced K Haven's 

Then kneeling down w Heaven's eternal K'^fa 
The saint, the father, and the husband prays 

Hope " springs exulting on triumphant wing," 
That thus they all shall meet in futm-e days : 

E 3 



18G bukinss poetical works. 

' There ever bask in uncreated rays, 

No more to sigli, or shed the bitter tear, 

I'ogether hymning their Creator's praise. 
In such society, yet still more dear; 
\Fnile circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. 

Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, 

In all the pomp of method and of art, 
When men display to congregations wide, 

Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart ! 
Thepo'.v'r, iiicens'd, the pageant will desert, 

The 'pompous strain, the sarcedotal stole ; 
But, haply, in some cott;xge far apart, 

May I'.ear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul; 
And in his book of life the imnatcs poor enrol. 

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way ; 

The 3'ouiigling cottagers retire to rest : 
Th'D parent-pair their secret homage pay, 

And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, 
That He, who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, 

And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, , 

Would, in the way his wisdom oces the best. 

For them, and for their little ones provide ; 
But, chietly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs. 

That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad : 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 

" An honest man's the noblest work of God ! " 
And certes, in fair virtue's hcav'nly road, 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; 
Wliat is a lordhng's pomp ? — a cumbrous load, 

Disguising oft the wretch of b-man kind. 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickediieas refin'd ! 

Oh Scotia! my dear, my native soil ! 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, 

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content I 
And oh i may Heaven their simple lives prevent 

From luxury's contagion, v/cak and vile! 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 

A virtuous populace may rise the while. 
And stand a wall of tire around their n^uch-lov'd isle. 

Oh Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide 

That stream'd through Wallace's undaunted heart, 
Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride. 

Or nobly die the second glorious part, 
(The patriot's God, ])cculiarly tliou nrt. 

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) 
Oh never, never, Scotia's realm desert : 

But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, 
la bright succo-ssion rtuse, lier ornament and gxutitL 



TO A MOUNTAIN i»AlSY. 

fa a Bmmtaiu Bm^. 

nr TUEKING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUaH 
IN APEIL, 1786. 

Wek, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, 
Tliou's met me in an evil hour ; 
For I maim crush aniang the stoure 

Thy slender stem : 
To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 

My bonnie gem. 

Alas ! it's no thy neibor sweet. 
The bonnie lark, companion ineet,- 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, 

Wi' speckl'd breast, 
When upward springing, blythe, to greet 

The piirphng east. 

Cauld blew the bittcr-b<iting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce rear'd above the tender earth 

Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,^ 
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shiddf 
But thou, beneath the random bield 

0' clod or stane, 
Adorn the liistie stibble field, 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawie bosom sunward spread. 
Thou hfts thy unassuming head, 

In humble guise ; 
But now the share uptears thy bed 

And low thou lies I 

Such is the fate of artless maid, 
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade ! 
By love's simplicity betray'd. 

And guileless trust, 
Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple bard, 

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'dl 

Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore, 
Till bill&ws rage, and gales blow hard, 

And whelm him o'er ! 



187 



4158 JURNS'S POETICAL AYORKS. 

Such fate to suffering worth it giv'n, _ ^ 
Who long with wauts and woes have stnv q* 
By human pi-ide or cunning driv'n 

To mis'ry's brink, 
Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'il, 

He, ruin'd, sink ! 

Ev'n thou who mourn' st the Daisy's fate. 
That fate is thine— no distant date; 
Stem Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, 

Full on thy bloom, 
Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, 

Shall be th}- doom. 



&}^b\k tn II f mmg /rlBiiit, 

MAT, 1796. 

I I.ANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend, 

A something to have sent you. 
Though it should servo nae other end 

Than just a kind memento ; 
But how the subject-theme may gaha 

Let time and chance determine : 
Perhaps it may turn out a sang, 

Perhaps turn out a sermon. 

Ye'U try the world fu' soon, my lad, 

And, Andrew dear, believe me, 
Ye'U find mankind an unco squad. 

And muckle they may grieve ye ; 
For care and trouble set your thought, 

Ev'n when your end's attained ; 
And a' your views may come to nought 

Where ev'ry nerve is straiu'd. 

I'll no say men are villains a' : 

The real, harden'd wicked, 
Wha hae nae check b\xt human law , 

Are to a few vestricked : 
But, och, mankind are unco weak, 

Aiid little to be trusted; 
If self the wavtning balance shake, 

It's rarely riglit adjusted. 

Yet they who fa' iu fortune's strife. 

Their fate we should ua censure. 
Fur still the important end of life 

They equally may answer: 
A man may hae an* honest heart, 

Tho' pnortith hourly stare him, 
A niau may take a neibor's part, 

Yet hae no cash to spare him, 



I 



EVISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 189 

Aye free, afFhan, j'onr story tell, 

When wi' a bosom crony ! 
But still keep sonietliing to yoursol 

Ye scarcely tell to ony. 
Conceal ycursd ;is weel's ye can 

Frae critical dissictiMn : 
But keek through ev'ry other man, 

Wi' sharpen'il, sly inspection. 

The sacred lowc o' wecl-plac'd love, 

Luxuriantly indulge it ; 
But never tempt th' illicit rove, _ 

Tho' naething- should dividge it 
I waive the quantum o' the sin, 

The hazard of concealing; 
But och ! it hardens a' within, 

And petrities the feeling ! 

To oatch dame Fortune's golden smile, 

Assiduous wait upon her ; 
And gather gear bj'^ cv'r^^ wile 

That's justified by honour; 
Not for to hide it in a hedge, 

Nor for a train-attendant. 
But for the glorious privilege 

Of being independent. 

The fear o' h.cH's a hangman's whip 

To hand the wretch in order ; 
But where ye feel your honour grip, 

Let that ave be \onv border : 



es^o 

a' mi. 



Debar a' mle pretences ; 

And resolutely keeps its laws, 

Uncaring consequences. 

The great Creator to revere 

]\Iust sure become the creature, 
But still the preaching can forbear, 

And e'en the rigid feature: 
Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, 

Be couiplai.sance extended ; 
An Atheist laugh's a poor exchange 

For Deity ofUiuded ! 

When ranting ro\inil in pleasure's rinf 

Reli'^ion may be blinded; 
Or if sh<^ gie a random sting, 

It may be little minded ; 
But when on lite we're tev.ipcst driv'n, 

A consciinite but a canker, 
A correspondriice fix'd wi' Ueav'n 

Is sure a nobler auchoi ! 



VJO BUIINS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

Adieu ! dear, amiable youth, 

Your heart can ne'er be wanting ; 
May prudence, fortitude, aud truth 

Erect your brow undaunting. 
In plougtiman phrase, "God send you speech 

Still daily to grow wi.-er ; . 
And may you better reck the rede 

Than ever did th' a'lviser ! 



Slrliiratiini in §mii lOniiiillnit, i^t 

Expect na, Sir, in this naiTation, 
A fleechiiig, fleth'ring dedication, 
To roose you up, aud ca' you guid, 
And sprung o' great and noble bluid, 
Because j'e're siirnaui'd like his grace ; 
Perhaps related to the race ; 
Then when I'm tir'd, and sae are ye, 
Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu' lie. 
Set up a face, how I stop sliort, 
For fear your modesty be hurt. 

This may do — maun do, Sir, wi' them wlia 
Maun please the great folk for a wamefou - 
For me — sae laigh I needna buw. 
For me, Lord be thankit, I can plough 
And wben I downa yoke a naig. 
Then, Tiovd be thankit, Ican])eg; 
Sae I shall saj--, and that's ua flatt'rin', 
It's just sic poet, and sic patron. 
The poet, some gmd angel help hiiM| 
Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp )iim 
He ma.y do weel for a' he's done yet. 
But only he's no just begun yeb. 

The Patron (Sir, ye maun forgive me, 

I winna lie, come what will o' me), 

On ev'ry hand it will allowed be, 

He's just — nae better than he should be, 

I readily and freely grant, 

He downa see a poor man want; 

What's no his ain he whma tak it, 

Wliat ance he says he winna break it ; 

Ought he can lend he'll no refus't 

Till aft his goodness is abus'd ; 

And rascals whyles that do him wrang^ 

Ev'n that he does na mind it lang : 

As master, landlord, husband, father, 

He does na fail his part in either. 

But then, nae thanks to hira for a' that 
Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that ; 
It's naething but a milder feature. 
Of our poor sinfu', corrupt nature ; 



4. DEDICATION TO GAVIN HAMILTON. EBf^ 191 

YeW get the l>C5t o' moral works, 
']\Iang black Go)itoos and Pagan Turks 
Or Imntt'vs wild on Poiiotaxi, 
Wha never heard of orthodoxy . 
That he's the poor man's friend in need. 
The gentleman in word ami deed, 
it's no thro' terror of d-mn-tion; 
Its just a carnal inclination. 

Morality, tliou deadly bane, 
Th}' tens of thousands thou hast slam ! 
Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is 
In moral mercy, truth, and justice. 

No — stretch a point to catch a plack j 
Abuse a brother to his back ; 
Steal thro' a wiimock frae a wh-re, 
But i)o:nt tl;e rake tb.at taks tb.e door; 
Be to the poor like ony wluuistane. 
And baud their nosv-s to the gruustane— 
Ply ev'ry art o' Icg.d thieving, 
No matter— stick to sound believing. 

Learn three-mile pray'rs and half-mile graceS), 
Wi' weel-spread looves, and lang wry faces; 
Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan, 
And damn a' parties but your own ; 
I'll warrant then ye're nae deceiver, 
A steady, sturdy, stanch believer. 

Oh ye, wha leave the springs o' Calvin, 
For gumlie du])s of your ain delvin', 
Ye sons of heresy and error, 
Ye'll some day squecl in quaking terror, 
When Vengeance draws the sword in wrath 
Ajid in the tire throws the sheath ; 
When Ruin, with his sweeping besom, 
Just frets till Heav'n commission gies him : 
While o'er the harp pale ]\Iis'ry moans, 
And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones 
Still loader shrieks, and heavier gi'oans I 

Your pardon, Sir, for this digression, 
I maist Ibrgat my dedication ; 
But when divinity comes cross me 
My readers still are sure to loss me. 
So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae U;ilt vapour, 
But I maturely thought it proper, 
When a' my works I did review. 
To dedicate them, Sir, to you: 
Because (ye need na tak it ill,) 
I thought them something lik yoursel 



192 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

Then patronise them wi' your favour, 

Anil your petitioner shall ever— - 

I had amai^t said, ever pray, 

But that's a word I need ua say : 

Fur prayin' I hae little skill o't; 

I'm baith dead sweei-, and wretched ill o't » 

But I'se repeat each poor man's pray'r, 

That kens and hears about you, Sir — 

"May ne'er Misfortune's growling bark, 
Howl thro' the dwelling o' the clerk ; 
May ne'er his gen'mus, honest heart 
For that ^ame gin'rous spirit smart I 
May Kennedy's t'ar-honour'd name • 
Lang beet his hymeneal Hame, 
Till Hamilton^, at least a dizen, 
Are by their canty iireside risen : 
Five bouuie lapses round their table, 
And seven braw fellows, s-tout and able 
To serve their king and country weel, 
By word, or pen, or pointed steel ! 
May health and peace, with mutual rays 
Shine on the ev'uing u' his days, 
Till his wee curlie John's ier-oe. 
When ebbing life nae muir shall flow, 



I will not wind a lang conclusion, 

With complimentary eliusim : 

But whilst your wishes and endeavours 

Are blest with fortune's tmiies and favour^ 

I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent, 

Your much indebted, humble servant. 

But if (which pow'rs above prevent,) 

That iron-hearted carl. Want, 

Attended in his grim advances, 

By sad mistakes and black mischances, 

While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him 

Make you as poor a dog as 1 am, 

Your humble servant then no more ; 

For who would humbly serve the poor! 

But, by a poor man's hopes in lleav'n! 

While recollection's power is giv'n, 

If, in the vale of humble life. 

The victim sad of fortune's strife, 

I, thro' the tender gushing tear, 

Should recognise my master dear, 

If, friendless, low, we meet together, 

Then, Sir, yom- hand— my friend and brother. 



193 



51 Drrniir, 



' Thoughts, •words, and deeds, the statute blames with 
But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason." 

GuiD morning to your Majesty ! 

May Heaven atignient your blisses. 
On ev'ry now birth-day ye i-ee, 

A humble poet wishes ! 
My hardship here, at your levee, 

On sic a day as this i-. 
Is sure an uncouth sight to see, 

Amang the biilli-day dresses, 
Sa iiue this day. 

I see ye're compliruentGd thrang, 

By many a K^rd and lady ; 
** God save the king ! " a cuckoo sang', 

Thai's unco easy said aye ; 
The puets, too, a venal gang, 

Wi' rhymes vv^eel-turn'dand ready, 
Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang. 

But aye unerring steady, . 
On sic a day. 

For me, b. fa-o a monarch's face, 

Ev'n there I wiuna flatter : 
For neither pension, post, nor place. 

Am I your h;;mble debtor : 
So, nae reflections on your grace. 

Tour kinyship to bespatter; 
There'ti mony waur been o' the race, 

And aiblins ano been better 
Then you this day. 

*Tis very true ray sov'reign king, 

My skill may weel be doubted: 
But facts are chiels that winua ding 

And downa be di>putcd : 
Your royal nest beu.ath your wing 

Is e'en right r. ft and clouted. 
And no the thir.: part of the string, 

And less, will gang about it 
Than did ae day. 

Far be't fra me that I aspire 

To blame your legislation, 
Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire, 

To rule this mighty nation ! 
But, faith, I muckle doubt, my sir% 

Ye've trusted ministration 
13 



194 BUUNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

To chops, wha, in a barn or byre, 
Wad better fill'd their .ta'ion 
Than court-i yon day. 

And now ye've g^ien aub! Britain peac©^ 

Her broken ph;ns to p aister. 
Your sair taxation does her fleece, 

Till she has fc irce a tester ; 
For me, thank God» my life's a lease, 

Nae bargain wearing faster, 
Or faith, I fear, that with the geese, 

I shortly boost t > pasture 

I' the craft some day. 

I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, 
When taxes he enlarges, 
(And Will's a true guid fallow'a get 
A name not envy spairges), 

That he intends to pay your debt, 
And lessen a' your charges ; 

But, G-dsakes, ht nae saving fit 
Abridge your bi nnie barges 
And boats this daj''. 

Adieu, my liege ! may freedom geek, 

Beneath your high protiction; 
And may ye rax corruption's neck, 

And gie her for dessection ! 
But since I'm liere I'll no neglect, 

In loyal, tru^' affection, 
To pay "your Queen, with due respeci^ 

My fealty and eubjection 

'This great birth-day. 

Hail, Majesty mo>t Excellent ! 

While nobles strive to please ye. 
Will ye accept a compliment 

A simple ]!oet gies you ? 
Thae bonnie bairutime Heav'n has lent, 

Still higher may ti.ey hecze ye 
Cn bliss, till fate rorae day is sent 

For ever to release ye 

Frae cai-e that day. 

For you, youn? potentate o' Wales, 

I tell your Highness fairly, 
Down pleasures stream, wi' swelling saili, 

I'm told your driving rarely ; 
But some day you may knaw your nail% 

And curse your fi lly sairly, 
That e'er ye brak Diana's pales, 

Or rattl'd dice wi' Charlie, 
By night or day. 



A DUEAM. 

Yet aft a raggod cowtc's been known 

To male a noble aivt-r; 
So, yo may (l,>iircly fill a throne, 

For a' their cli-ii-ma-olaver : 
Thrre, him at A.uiiioour.. wha shone. 

Few better were or braver, 
And yet wi' I'unuy, queer Sir John, 

He was an unco .shaver 

For nionie a day. 

For you, right rey'rend Osnaburg 

Nane sets the lawn sleeve sweeter, 
Altho' a ribbon at your lug, 

Wad been a dress completer : 
As ye disown yon paughty dog, 

That bears the keys of Peter, 
Theu, swith ! and get a wife to hu?, 

Or, trouth, ye'll stain the mitre 
Some luckless da3\ 

Young, royal Tnrry Breeks, I learn, 

Ye've lately come athwart her : 
A glorious gulley, stem and stern, 

Weel rig'd for Venus' barter ; 
But first hang out that she'll discern 

Your hymeaeal charter, 
Then heave aboard your grapple airn, 

And, hug.- upon her quarter, 
Come full that day. 

Ye, lastly, bounie blossoms a'. 

Ye r<iyal la sies dainty, 
Heav'n niak you guid as well as braWi 

And gie you lads a-plenty : 
But sneer na British boys awa', 

Forkiugs are unco scant eve. 
And German gentles are but sma' 

They're better just than want ayo 
On onie day. 

God bless you a' ! consider now 

Ye're unco muckle dautet ; 
But ere the course o' life be thro'. 

It may be bitter sautet : 
And I hae seen their coggie fou 

That yet hae tarrov/t at it; 
But or the day was done, I trow 

The luggeu they hae clautet 
Fu' clean that day. 



m 



196 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS 

Is there a whim-inspir'd fool, 

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rul«^ 

Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool# 

Let him draw near ; 
And owre this grassy heap sing dool, 

And drap a tear. 

Is there a bard of rustic song, 

Who, noteless, steals the crowds amongj 

That weekly this area throng, 

Oh, pass not by! 
But, with a frater-ieeliug string. 

Here heave a sigh. 

Is there a man, whose judgment clear, 
Can others teach the course to bteer, 
Yet runs him-elf lite's mad career, 

AVild as the wave ; 
Here pause — and, thro' the starting teaiV 

Survey this grave. 

The poor inhabitant below, 

"Was quick to learn, and wise to know, 

And keenly felt the friendly glow, 

And softer Hame; 
But thoughtless follies laid him low. 

And staiu'd his name ! 

Eeader, attend — whether thy soul 
Soar's fancy's flights beyond the pole, 
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole, 

In low pursuit; 
Know, prudent, cautious self-control 
Is wisdom's root. 



A TALE. 

'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle 
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil, 
Upon a bounie day in June, 
When wearing through the afternoon, 
Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame, 
Forgather'd ance upon a time. 

The first I'll name, they ca'd him Caesar, 
Was keepit for his honour's pleasure ; 
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, 
Show'd he v-^s nane o' Scotland's dogs ; 



TWA 1)0(13. 

But whelpit some pl.ico far abroad, 
Wbaro sailors yang to rtsh for cod. 

His locked, leatlier'd, l)ra\v brass collar 

Sliow'd liini tbe gentleman and scholar 

Bur though he was o' high degree, 

The tient a pride— nae pride had he ; 

But wad hae spent an hour carossin', 

E'cii wi' a tinkler-gipsy's messiu'. 

At kii'k or market, mill or sniiddie, 

Naetawted tyke, though ere sae duddie, 

But he wad stant, as glad to see him, 

And stroam't on stanesand hillocks wi'liim, 

The tither was a ploughman's collie, 

A rhyming, ranting, nu'ing billie, 

Wha for his friend and comrade had him, 

And in his freaks had Liiatli ca'd him, 

After some dog in Highland sang 

Was made lang syne— Lord knows how lang. 

He was a gash and iaitiiful tyke, 

As ever lap or sheugh or dyke. 

His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 

Aye gat him fi-iends in ilka place, 

His breast was white, his touzie back 

Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 

His gaucy tail, wi' upward curl. 

Hung o'er his hurdles wi' a swirl. 

Nac doubt but they were fain o' ither, 

And unco pack and thick thcgither : 

Wi' social nose whyles snuff'd and suowkit. 

Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit ; 

Whj'les scour'd awa in lang excursion. 

And worried itb(>r in diversion ; 

Until wi' datiin' weary grown. 

Upon a kuowe the3^ sat them down, 

And there began a lang digression 

About the lords o' the creation. 



I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, 
Wliat sort o' life poor dogs like you have; 
And when the gentrj-'s life I saw, 
What way poor bodies liv'd ava. • 

Our laird gets in his racked rents, 
His coals, his kain, and a' his stent* 
He rises when he likes hirasel ; 
His flunkies answer at the bell* 
He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse: 
He draws a bonnie silken purse, 
As lang's my tail, whare, thro' the steeki 
The yellow-lettr'd Geurdie kecks. 

s3 



19? 



19S BCHSSo fuKTICiL WORKb. 

Frae morn to e'en its nonglit but toiling, 
At baking, roasting, frj'ing, boiling ; 
And though the gentry first are stetchin. 
Yet e'en tiie ha' folk till their pechan 
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie: 
That's little short o' downright wastrie. 
Our whipper-in, wee blastit wonner, 
Poor worthless elf, it eat a diiuier, 
Better than ony tenant man 
His hanour has in a' the lau' ; 
And what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, 
I own its past my comprehension. 



Ti'owtli, Cffisar, wlij-les they're fash enough| 
A cotter howkiii' in a sheugli, 
Wi' dirty stanes biggin' a dyke, 
Baring a quarry, and sic like; 
Himself, a wite, he thus sustains, 
A fjuij'trie o' wee duddie weans. 
And nought but his ban' dark to keep 
Them right and tight in thack and rape. 

And when they meet wi' sair disastei's, 
Like loss o' health, or want o' masters, 
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer, 
And they \na\ui starve o' cauld (U' hungerj 
But how ic comes I never kenn'd yet. 
They're niaistly wouderfu' ct)ntented : 
And buirdly duels, an:l clcvL'r luzzios, 
Are bred in sir a way as tliis is. 

C2SAJI. 

But then to see bow VL-'re n "^lotlt, 
ttowbufF'd, aul cutrd, and disrespecldt ! 
L^d, mail, our gentry care as little 
For delvers, ditchers, and sic cattle; 
They gang as saucy l)y poor folk, 
As I would by a stink fu' brock. 
I've notic'd, on our hiird's court-day, 
And mony a time my heart's been wac, 
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash. 
How they maun thole a factor's snash; 
He'll stamp and threaten, curse and swp-ar, 
He'll apprehend them, pound their gear : 
While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble^ 
And hear it a', and fear and tremble ! 
I see how folk live that hae riches ; 
But surely poor folk mauu be wretches I 



THE TWA roQS. 190 



They're no sue wrctched's ane maj' think j 
Tho' constantly on poovtith's brink ; 
They're sao accustom'd \vi' tho siglit, 
The view o't gies thoni httle fright. 
Then chance and fortune are sae guided, 
They'j'e aye in h^ss or mair provided ; 
And tho' Vatigu'd wl close employment, 
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. 

The dearest comfort o' their lives, 
Theii" grushio weans and faithfu' wives ; 
The prattling things are just their pride, 
That sweetens a' tiieiv fireside ; 
And whyles twalpcnnie-wcrth o' nappy 
Can make the bodies unco happy; 
Thej^ lay aside their private cares, 
To mind the Kirk and State ariiiirs : 
They'll talk o' patronage and priests 
Wi' kindling fury in tix^r breasts : 
Or tell what new taxation's comin', 
And ferlie at the iblk in Lon'on. 

As bleak-fac'd Hallowmas returns, 
They get the jovial, ranting kirns 
WHien rural life, o' ev'ry station. 
Unite in common recreation ; 
Love blinks, Wit slaps, and social Mi 
Forgets tliere's Care upo' the earth. 

That merr}' day the year begins, 
They bar the door on frosty win's ; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, 
And sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; 
The luntin pipe and sneeshiu mill, 
Are handed round wi' right guid will ; 
The cantie auld folks crackin' crouse, 
The young anes rautin' thro' the house—* 
My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. 

StiU it's awre true that ye hae said, 
Sic game is now owre aften play'd. 
There's mouie a creditable stock 
O' decent, honest, favvsont folk, 
Ai*e riven out baith root and branch, 
Some rascal's pridetu' greed to quench^ 
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster 
In favour wi' some gentle master, 
Wha aiblins thrang a parliamentin', 
For Britain's guid his saul iudentiu'-* 



200 BUll>^!? S POEXrCAL -^011113. 



Haith, lad, ye little Icen about it ; 

For Britain's guid ! guid faith, 1 doubt it, 

Say, rather, gauu as Premiers lead him, 

Aud saying a>' ov no's tbey bid him : 

At operas and plays parading, 

Mortgaging, gauil)ling, masquerading: 

Or may he, in a I'rolie daft. 

To Hagi.ie or Calais takes a waft, 

To mak a tour and tak a whirl, 

To learn Ion ton, and see the worl'. 

There, at Vienna or Versailles, 

He rives his father's auld entails ; 

Or by Madrid he takes the route. 

To thrum guitars and fecht wi' nowte; 

Or down Italian vista startles, 

W-^re hunting amang groves o' mjTtles ; 

Then bouses druuily German water, 

To mak himsel look fair and fatter. 

And clear the consequential sorrows, 

Love-gifts of Carnival signoras. 

For Britain's guid ! — for her destruction ! 

Wi' dissipation, feud, and faction. 



Hecli, man ! dear sirs ! is that the gate 
They waste sae mony a braw estate ! 
Are we sae foughten and harass'd 
For fear to gang that gate at last ! 

Oh would they stay aback frae courts. 
And please themselves with countra sportg, 
It wa,d for ev'ry ane be better. 
The Laird, the Tenant, and the Cotter ! 
For thae frank, rantin', rambling billies 
Fient haet o' them's ill-heartal fellows; 
Except for breakin' o' their timmer. 
Or speaiving lightly o' their limmer, 
Or shootin' o' a hare or raoor-cock, 
The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk. 

But will ye tell me. Master Caesar, 
Suie great iblk's life's a life o' pleasure? 
Nae cauld or hunger e'er can steer thein, 
The vera thought o't need na fear them. 



L — d, man, were ye liut wlivles whare I am. 
The gentles ye wae ne'er envy 'era. 



201 



it's true, they iicodna starve or sweat, 
Thro' winter's cauld or simmer's heat ; 
They've \iae sair wark to cva/.c their hanes, 
And fill auld ago \vi' grips and granes : 
Bnt human bodies are sic fools, 
For a' tlieir colleges and schools, 
That when nae re;d ills perplex them, 
They mak enow themselves to vex them; 
And aye the less they hae to sturt them, 
In like proportion less will hurt them. 

A country fellow at the pleugh, 

His acre's till'd, he's right eneugh j 

A country girl at her wheel, 

Her dizen's done, she's unco weel : 

But gentlemen and ladies vvarst, 

Wi' ev'n down want o' wark are curst, 

They loiter, lounging, lank, and lazy; 

Tho' deii haet ails them, yet uueasy ; 

Their days insipid, dull, and tasteless; 

Their nights unquiet, lang, and restless ; 

And e'en their sports, their halls and races, 

Their galloping thro' public places, 

There's sic parade, sic pomp, and art, 

The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 

The men cast out in party matches, 

Then sawther a' in deep debauches ; 

Ac night they're mad wi' dnnK andwh-riuft 

Neist day their life is past enduring. 

The ladies, arm-in-arm, in clusters. 

As great and gracious a as sisters ; 

But hear their absent thoughts o' ither, 

The\''re a' run deils and j ads thegither. 

Whj-les o'er the wee bit cup and platie. 

They sip the scandal potion pretty ; 

O'er Ice-lang night>, wi' crabbit leuks, 

Poreowre the deviFs pictur'd beuks ; 

Stake on a chance a fanner's stack-yard. 

And cheat like onie unhang'd blackguard. 

There's some exception, man and woman, 

But this is Gentry's life in common. 

By this, the sun was out o' sight, 
And darker gloaming brought tlie night j 
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone ; 
The kye stood rowtin' i' the loan ; 
When up they gat, and shook their Ings, 
Rejoic'd tiiey were na men, but dogs ; 
And each took off his several way, 
llesolv'd to iiiecL &ouie icher dar. 



202 EURKS'S POF.TTCAL WOKTTS. 

OCCASIONED BY THE U2^ FORTUNATE ISSUB 

OP A friend's amour. 

"Alas! how oft does goodness wound itself! 
And sweet affection prove the spring of woe!" 

H0M1* 

Oh thou pale orb, that silent shines, 

While care-untroubled mortals sleep ! 
Thou seest a wretch who inly pines, 

And wanders here to wail and weep ! 
With woe I nightlj' vigils keep, 

Beneath thy wan, nnwarming beam ; 
And mourn, in lamentation deep, 

How life and love are all a dream. 

I joyless view thy rays adorn 

The faintl}' marked distant hiU : 
I joyless view thy trembling horn, 

Keflected in the gurgling rill: 
My fondly -fluttering heart, be still ! 

Thou busy pow'r, remembrance, cease ! 
Ah ! must the agonizing thrill 

For ever bar returning peace ? 

No idly-feign'd poetic pains. 

My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim ; 
No shepherd's pipe — Arcadian strains ; 

No fabled tortures, quaint and tame: 
The plighted faith ; the mutual flame ; 

The oft-attested Pow'rs above ; 
The promis'd father's tender name ; 

These were the pledges of my love ! 

Encircl'd in her clasping arms, 

How have the raptur'd moments flown } 
How liave I wish'd for fortune's charms, 

For her dear sake, and her's alone ! 
And must I think it — is she gone, 

My secret heart's exulting boast ? 
And does she heedless hear my groan P 

And is she ever, ever lost ? 

Oh ! can she bear so base a heart. 

So lost to honour, lost to truth, 
As from the fondest lover part, 

The plighted husband of her youth ! 
Alas ! life's path may be un smooth ! 

Her way may lie thro' rough distress I 
Then who her pangs and pains will sooth^ 

Her sori'ows share, and make them lesB ? 



203 



fe whigcu lior.r.s tliat o'oi* us past, 

Enrnittm-"c! more, the more enjoy 'd, 
Your dear rcinonibrinice in my breast, 

My i'ou.Uy treasurcl thoughts employ'd. 
That breast^ liow dreary now, and void, 

For her too seauty once of room ! 
Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroj^'d. 

And ii(")t a "wish to gild the gloom! 

The morn tliat warns th' approaching day- 
Awakes me up to toil and woe: 

I see the liours in long array, 

That I nmst sutler, lingering slow. 

Full many a pang, and many a throe, 
Keen recollection's direful train, 

JkLust ring m}- soul, ere Phuebus, low. 
Shall kiss the distant, western main. 

And when my nightly eouch I try, 

Sore-harass'd out with care and grief, 
My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye. 

Keep watchings with the nightly thief: 
Or if 1 slumber, fancy, chief, 

Keigns hagg;u-d-wild, in sore aflTright: 
Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings relief. 

From such a horror-breathing night. 

Oh ! thou bright queen, who o'er th' expansa^ 

Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway. 
Oft has thy silent-marking glance 

Observ'd us, fondly- wand'ring, stray! 
The time, unheeded, sped away. 

While love's luxurious pulse beat high, 
Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray, 

To mark the mutual kindling eye. 

Oh ! scenes in strong remembrance set ; 

Scenes uev(>r, never to return ! 
Scenes, if in stupor I forget, 

Again 1 feel, again I burn ! 
From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn, 

Life's weary vale I'll wander thro*; 
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn 

A faithless woman's broken vow. 



' Mims to iMnliurgjr. 

Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs. 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs^! 
From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'r^ 

As on the liluiks of Ayr 1 stray 'd, 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 

I shelterin thy houour'd shade. 



2(>1 BL'K-NS'S rOETlCAL WOfiKB^ 

Rere wealth still swells the golden tide, 

As busy Trade, his labour plies; 
There Architecture's noble pride 

Bids elei,^ance and splendour rise ; 
Here Justice, from her native skies, 

High wields her balance and her rod J 
There Learuin-, with his eagle eyes. 

Seeks science in her coy abode. 

Thy sons, Edina ! social, kind, 

Witii ojjen arms, the stranger hail; 
Their views exdarg'd, their lib'ral mind,, 

Above the narrow, rural va!o ; 
Attentive still to sorrow's wail, 

Or modest merit's silent clahn ; 
And never may their sources fai] ! 

And never envy blut tlieir name ! 

Thy daughters bright thy walks adoni, 

Gay as the gilded summer sky. 
Sweet as the dewy milk-wlute thorn, 

Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy 1 
Fair Burnet strikes th' adorning eye, 

Heav'ii's beauties on my fancy shine; 
I see the Sire of Love on high. 

And own His work indeed divine ! 

There, watching high the least alarms, 

Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar, 
Like some bold vet'ran, grey in arms. 

And mark'd with many a seaming scan 
The ponderous wall and massy bar, 

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock, 
Have oft withstood the assailing war. 

And oft repeU'd th' invader's shock. 

With awe-struck thought, and pityuig teare^ 

I view that noble, stately dome, 
Where Scotia's kings of other years, 

Fam'd lieroes ! had their royal home: 
Alas, how chang'd the times to come ! 

Their royal iiauie low in tlie dust ! 
Their hapless race, wild-wand'ring, I'oam 

Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just ! 

Wild heats my heart to tracj your steps, 

Whose ancestors, in days of yore, 
Thro' hostile ranks and ruiu'd gaps 

Old Scotia's blood>- lion !)ore : 
Ev'n I, who sing in rustic Icn'e, 

Haply, my sires h ive left their shed. 
And fac'd grim danger's loudest roar, 

Bold- folio wing where \imr fathers led ! 



XHE BEIG3 OF AYE. £00 



Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail til)- paliKCs and low'rs, 
Where once beneath the monarch's feet 

Sat Legislation's sov'reiyn pow'rs ! 
From markintr wildly-scatter'd llow'rs, 

As on c% banks of Ayr I stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the ling'riiig hours, 

I shelter in thy honour' I shade. 



INSCEIBED TO JOHN BALLANTYNE, ESQ., ATB. 

The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, 

Learning his tunelul trade from ev'ry bough ; 

The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush, 

Haihng the setting sun, sweet in the green-thorn bush 

The soaring lark, the perchiiig •red-breast shrill, 

Or deep-tou'd plovers, grey, ^\■ftd-whistling o'er the hillp 

Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lowly shed, 

To hardy independence bravely bred, 

By earl}^ poverty to hardship steel'd, 

And traiu'd to arms in stern misfortune's field — 

Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, 

The servile, mercenar}- Swiss of rhymes ? 

Or labour hard the panegyric close. 

With all the venal soul of dedicating prose ? 

No ! though his artless strains he rudely sings. 

And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings. 

He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, 

Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward! 

Still, if some patron's gen'rous care he trace, 

Skill'd in the secret to bestow with grace ; 

When Ballantyne betriends his humble name, 

And hands the rustic stranger up to fame, 

A\'ith lieartl'elt throes his grateful bosom swells. 

The god-like bliss, to give, alone excels. 



'Twas when the stacks get on their, mnter-hap, 
And thack ond rape secure the toil-worn crap; 
Potato-bings are snugged up frae skaith 
Of coming Winter's biting, frosty Ijreath ; 
The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils, 
Unnumber'd buds and llow'rs, delicious spoils, 
Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen piles, 
Are doom'd bj' man, that tyrant o'er the weak. 
The death o' devils smoor'd wi' brimstone reek; 
The thundering guns are heard on ev'ry side, 
The wounde<l conveys, reeliue:, scatter wide; 

f 



206 BURNS'S POETlCi^Ii WOBKS. 

The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's tie, 

Sires, mothers, chil(h-en, in one carnage He; 

(What warm, poeti.; heart„but inly bleeds, 

And execrates man's savage ruthless deeds !) 

Nae mair the tiow'r in field ov meadow sm-ings ; 

Nae mair the grove with airy concert riii|s. 

Except, perhaps, the robin's whisthng glee, 

Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree : 

The hoary morns precede the sunny days. 

Mild, calm, serene, wide-spreads the noon-tide blaze, 

While thick the gossamour waves wanton in the rays* 

'Twas in that season, when a simple bard, 

Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward, 

Ae night, within the ancient burgh of Ayr, 

By whim inspired, or haply pre^.t wi' care, 

He left his bed, and took his wayward route. 

And down by Si:ni)sun's whccl'd the left about : 

(Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate 

To witness what I after shall narrate ; 

Or whether,' rapt in meditation high, 

He wandcr'd out he knew not where or why) 

The drowsy Dungcon-clock had number'd two. 

And Wallace Tower had sworn the fact was true : 

The tide-swohi Firth, with sullen, sounding roar, 

Through the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore. 

All else was hush'd as Nature's closed e'e : 

The silent noon shone high o'er tow'r and tree : 

The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, 

Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering stream. 

When To ! on either hand the Hst'ning Bard, 

The clanging sugh of whistling wings is heai'd; 

Two dusky forms dart through the midnight air, 

Swift as the gos drives on the wheehng hare ; 

Ane on the Auld Brig his airy shape uprears, 

The ither flutters o'er the rising piers : 

Our warlock Rhymer instantly decry'd 

The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside. 

(That bards are second-sighted is nae joke, 

And ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk ; 

Pays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a", they can explain them, 

And ev'n the vera deils they brawly ken them,) 

Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pictisli race, 

The very wrinkles Gotb.ic in his face ; 

He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang. 

Yet teughly doure, he bade an unco bang. 

New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat. 

That he at Lon'on, frae ane Adams got ; 

In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead, 

Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head. 

The Goth was stalking round with anxious 

Spying the time-worn fiaws in ev'ry arch ; — 



THE BEIGS OF ATE. 207 

It chanc'd his now-come neebor took liis c'e, 
And e'en a vox'd and angry heart had he ! 
Wi' thievolcss sneer to see his nioodisli mien, 
He, down the water, gies him this good e'en :— 

AULD» BRIG. 

I doubt na', frien', j-e'll think ye're nae sheepshank, 
Ance ye were streekit o'er Irae bank to bank ! 
But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, 
Tho' faitii, that day I doubt vo'll never see ; 
There'll be, if that date come, I'll wad a boddle. 
Some fewer whigmaleeries in j'our noddle. 

NEW BEIG. 

Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense, 
Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ; 
Will your poor narrow foot-path of a street, 
Wliare twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet— 
Your ruin'd, formless bulk o' stane and lime. 
Compare wi' bonnie Brigs o' modern time ? 
There's men o' taste wou'd tak the Ducat stream 
Tho' they should cast the vera sark and swim, 
Ere tj:iey would grate their feelings wi' the view 
Of sic an ugl}', Gothic hulk as you. 

AUI I BEIG. 

Conceited gowk ! puffd up wi' windy pride — • 
This many a year I've stood the flood and tide ; 
.And tho' wi' craz}-- eild I'm sair forfairn, 
I'll be a Brig, when yc'so a shapeless cairn ; 
As yet ye little ken about the matter, 
But twa-three winters will inform ye better. 
When heavy, dark, continued a'-day rains, 
Wi' deepening deluges o'erllow the plains ; 
When from the hills where springs the brawling Coil, 
Or stc.tel}' Lugar's mossy fountains boil. 
Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course, 
Or haunted Garpal draws his feeble source, 
Arous'd by blust'ring winds and spotting thowes, 
In mony a torrent down his snaw-broo rowes; 
While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat, 
Sweeps dams and mills, and brigs, a' to the gate ; 
And from Glenbuck down to the Ratton-key, 
Auld Ayr is just one lengtheu'd, tum])hng sea- 
Then down ye'U hurl, deil nor ye never rise ! 
And dash the gumhejaups up to the pouring skies. 
A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost, 
That Architecture's noble art is lost ! 

NEW BEIG. 

Fine Architectui'e, trowth, I needs must say't o't t 
The L — d be thankit that we've tint the gate o't 1 
Gaunt, ghastlj', ghaist-alluring edifices, 
Hanging with threat'ning jut hke precipices; 



j03 btjens s poetical works. 

O'er-arclnng, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves, 

Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves : 

Windows and doors in nameless sculpture drest, 

With order, symmetr}-, or taste unbiest ; 

Forms like some bedlam Statuary's dream, 

The craz'd creations of misguided whim ; 

Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended knee. 

And still the second dread command be free, 

Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea. 

Mansions that would disgrace the building taste 

Of any mason reptile, bird, or beast ; 

Fit only for a doited monkish race, 

Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace ; 

Or cuifs of latter times wha held the notion 

That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion; 

Fancies that our good Brugh denies protection, 

And soon ma3- they expire, unbiest with resurrection ! 

AULD BEIG. 

Oh ye, my dear-remember'd ancient yealings, 
Were ye but here to shai'e my wounded feelings ! 
Ye worthy Proveses, and mony a Bailie, 
Wlia in thy paths o' righteousness did toil aye r 
Ye dainty Deacons and ye douce Conveners, 
To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners ; 
• Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town ; 
Ye godly brethren o' the sacred gown, 
Wha meekly ga'e your hurdles to the smiters ; 
And (what would now be strange,) ye godly writers ; 
A' ye douce folk I've boi'ue aboon the broo, 
Were ye but here, what would ye say or do ! 
How would your spirits groan in deep vexation, 
To see each melancholy alteration ; 
And agonizing curse the time and place 
When ye begat the base, degen'rate race ! 
Nae longer rev 'rend men, their country's glory, 
In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain, braid story ! 
Nae longer thrifty citizens and douce. 
Meet owre a pint, or in the council-house ; 
But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless gentry, 
The herrymtnt and ruin of the country; 
Men, three parts made by tailors and by barbers, 
Wlia waste your weel-hain'd gear on d — d new Brigs 
and Harbours ! 

NEW BRIG. 

Now haud you there ! for faith j-^ou've said enough^ 
And muckle mair than ye can mak to through ; 
As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little, 
Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle : 
But, under favour o' your langer beard. 
Abuse c' Magistrates might weel be spar'd : 



THE liUIfiO OF AVa. 

To liken tliem to your aiild-warld squixd, 

I need.s must say, coiiii)arisoiis are odd. 

In Ayr, wag-wits iiac iiiair can liavc a liandle 

To mouth " a citizen," a tonn o' scandal ; 

Nae mair the Council waddles down the street, 

In all the pomp of iy ran-ant conceit ; 

STon wha grow wise priggin' owrc hops and raisins, 

Or gather'd lil)'ral views in honds and seisins, 

If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp, 

Had shor'd them with a glimmm- of his lamp, 

And would to Con-;mon Sense tor once betray'd them, 

Piain, dull Stupidity stcpt kindly in to aid them. 



"Wliat further clish-ma-clavev might been said, 
Wliat bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to slied, 
No man can tell ; but all before their sight, 
A fairy train apjiear'd in order bright : 
Adown the glitt'ring stream tliey featly danc'd : 
Bright to tlie moon their various dresses glauc'd : 
They footed o'er the wat'iy glass so neat, 
The infant ica sciuve bent beneath their feet: 
While arts of minstrelsy among them rung, 
And soul-ennobling bards heroic ditties sung. 
Oh, had i\l'Lauchlan, thairm-inspiring sage, 
Been there to hear tins heavenly band engage, 
When thro' his dear strathspeys they bore with High- 
land rage; 
Or when they struck old Scotia's melting air, 
The lover's raptur'd joys or bleeding cares ; 
How would his Highland lug been nobler fir'd, 
And ev'n his matcldess baud with liner touch inspir'd! 
No guess could tell what instrument appear'd, 
But all tlie soiil of Music's self was heard; 
Harmonious concert rung in every part. 
While simple melody pour'd moving ou the heart. 

The Genius of the stream in front appears, 
A venerable Chief advanc'd in years ; 
His hoary head witii watcr-lihes crown'd. 
His manly leg witli garter tangle bound : 
Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring, 
Lvvcet female beauty, hand in iiand with Spring; 
Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural Joy, 
And Summer, with his fervid, beaming eye : 
All-cheering Plenty, with her Howing horn, 
Led jellow Autumn, wreatlied with nodding com; 
Then Winter's time-bloach'd locks did hoary show, 
B}' Hosjiitality with cloudless brow. 
Next foUow'd Courage, with his martial stride, 
From where the Feal wild woody coverts hide; 
Benevolence, with mild, benignant air, 
A female form, came from the towers of Stan ; 

U »8 



210 BUKKS 3 POETICAL WORKS. 

Learning and Worth in equal measures trode, 

From simple Catrine, tlieir loug-lov'd abode; 

Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazel wreath, 

To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 

The broken iron instruments of death ; 

At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kindling wrath. 



A GESTIEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HOJfOUSS 

IiniEDIATELT EEGM ALMIGHTY, GOD. 

" Should the poor be flattered ? " — Shakspeakb. 

But now his radiant coxirse is run, 
For Matthew's course was bright ; 

His soul was like the glorious sun, 
A matchless, heavenly light! 

Oh Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ; 

The meikle devil wi' a woodie 

Haurl thee hanie to his black sraiddie, 

O'er hurcheon hides, 
And like stock-fish come o'er his studdia 

Wi' thy avdd sides ! 

He's gane ! he's gane ! he's frae us torn. 

The ae best fellow e'er was born ! 

Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel' shall mourn 

By wood and wild, 
Where, haply. Pity strays forlorn, 

Frae man exil'd ! 

Ye hills, near neighbours o' the stams. 
That proudly cock yo\u- cresting cairns : 
Ye cliffs, the hauiits of sailing yearns, 

Where echo slumbers ! 
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, 

My wailing numbers. 

MoTorn, ilka grove the cushat kens. 

Ye haz'ly shaws and briary dens. 

Ye bumies, wimplin' down your glens^ 

Wi toddlin' din. 
Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens, 

Frae lin to lin. 

M(mm, little hareboUs o'er the lea. 
Ye stately foxgloves, fair to see. 
Ye vroodbines, hanging bonnilie, 

In scented bow'rs; 
Ye r!)ses on your thorny tree, 

The first of flowers. 



OH CAVTAI.V MATTliKVV UENDERSON, 811 


At dawn, when ov'iy jilassy bliide 
Droc^ with a dianiond at its head, 
Atev'ii, when hv.xm thoir fragrance shed, 

r jli' rustling gale, 
Ye maukins whidding through the glade, . 

Came, join my wail. 


Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood; 
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud j 
Ye cm-lews calling through a clud ; 

Ye whistling plover ; 
And mourn, ye wliirring paitrick brood !-• 

He's gane for ever. 


Mourn, sooty coots, and speckl'd teals, ' , 
Ye Usher herons, watching eels ; 
Ye duck and drake, wi' aii-y wheels 

Circling the lake; 
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, 

Eair for his sake. 


MoTu-n, clam'ring crakes, at close o' day, 
'Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay, 
And when ye wing your annualVay 

Frae our cauld shore. 
Tell the far warlds, wha lies in clay, 1 

Wham we deplore. i 


Ye owlets, fi-ae your ivy bow'r, • 

In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r, 

What time the moon, wi' silent glow'r, ! 

Sets up her horn, ■ 
Wail through the dreary midnight hour ' 

Till waukrife morn ! 


Oh, livers, forests, hills, and plains ! 
Oft have ye heard mj-^ cantj' strains : 
But now what else for me remains 

But tales of woe ? 
And frae my een the drapping rains 

Maun ever flow. • 


Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the j'^ear . 
Ilk cowslip ci.p shall kep a tear : 
Thou, Simmer, while each coniy spear 

Slioots up its head. 
Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear 

For him that's dead ! 


Tliou, Autumn, wi' thy j'eUow hair, 
In grief thy sallow mantle tear ; 
Thou, Winter, hurhng thro' the air 

The roaring blast, 
Wide o'er the naked world declare 

The worth we've lost ! 

. ^ ^ 



212 BUKNS'S POKTICA.L WOUKS. 

Mourn him, tlion sun, great source of light; 
Mourn, empress of the silent night ! 
And you, ye twinkling starries l3right. 

My jNIatthew mourn ! 
For through your orbs he's ta'enhis fliglit, 

Ne'er to return. 

Oh, Henderson ! the man^the brother ! 
And art thou gone, and gone for ever ? 
Ajid liast thou cross'd that unknown river. 

Life's dreary bound ? 
Like thee wlierc shall I find another, 

Tiie world around? 

Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye great. 
In a' the tinsel trash o' state ! 
But by thy ho\ie.st turf I'll wait. 

Thou man of wortli ! 
And weep the ae best fellow's fate - 

E'er lay in earth. 

THE EPITAPH. 

Stop, passenger ! — my story's brief. 
And truth I shall relate, man: 

I tell na common tale of grief — 
For Matthew was a great man. 

If thou uncommon merit hast. 
Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man, 

A look of pity hither cast, 

For Matthew was a poor man. 

If thou a noble sodger art, 

That passest b^^ this grave, man, < 

There moulders here a gallant heart— 

For Matthew was a brave man. 

If thou on men, their works and ways. 
Canst throw uncommon light, man, 

Here lies wha vveel had won thy praise— 
For Matthew was a bright man. 

If thou at friendship's sacred ca' 

Wad life itself resign man, 
Thy sympathetic tear maun fa' — 

For Matthew was a kind man ! 

if thoa art stanch without a stain, 
Like the unchanging blue, rnan. 

This was a kinsnuu\ <•' thine aiu— 
For Mattliew wa.-^ a true, niiin. 



lAM O' SHANTEfi. 213 

If tbou hast wit, and fun, and fire, 

And ne'ci* guid wine did fear, mao, 
This was th}' billic, dam, and sirtj — 

For Matthew was a queer man. 

If ony whiggish whingin' sot, 

To blame poor jNlutthew dare, man, 
May dool and sorrow be his lot ! 

For Matthew was a rare man. 



fem <^' §\)u\n, 



"Of brownysis and of bogitis, full is this buke." 

GAWIN DOUOLAB. 

When chapman billies leave the street, 
And drouthy neighbours, neighboixrs meet, 
As market-daj's are wearing late, 
And folk begin to tak the gate ; 
While we sit bousing at the nappy, 
And gettin' fou' and unco happj', 
We think na on tlie lang Scots miles. 
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles. 
That lie between us and our hame, 
Where sits our sulky sullen dame, 
Gathenng her brows like gathering storm, | 
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. , y 

This truth fand honest Tarn o' Shauter, 
As he frae A3T ae night did canter, 
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses. 
For honest men and bonnie lasses). 

Oh Tam ! had'st thou but been sa wise, 
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 
She tauld the weal thou was a skellura, 
A blethering, blustering, drunken, blelluni; 
That frae Noveml^er till October : 
Ae market-day thou was nae sober ; 
That ilka melder, wi' the miller. 
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; 
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on. 
The smith and tlice gat roaring fou on ; 
That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
Thou drank wi' Kirtou Jean till Monday 
She prophesied, that, late or soon, 
Thou wt.idd bo found dci-pdrowu'd inDoOQ, 
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk/ 
By Allowa> 's uuld haunted kirk. 

All, gentle damos ! it gars me greet, 
To tliink iiovv niony counsels sweet. 



214 BUENS'S POETICAL ■WORKS. 

How mony lengthon'd sage advices, 
The husband frae the wife despises ; 
But to ouv tale: — ae market niglit, 
Tarn had got planted unco right, 
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely i 
And !xt his elbow, Souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; 
Tarn lo'ed him like a vera brithcr — 
They had been fou' for weeks thegither; 
The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter, 
Aiid aye the ale was growing better : 
The landlady and Tam grew gracious, 
Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious, 
The Souter tauld his queerest stories. 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus ; 
The storm without might rair and rustle- 
Tarn did na mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy. 
E'en drown'd iiimself amang the nappy; 
As bees liee hame wi' lades o' treasure. 
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure t 
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious. 

g But pleasures are like poppies spread, | 
f You seize the flower, its bloom is shed; f 
I Or like the snowfall in the river, jr 

1 A moment white — then melts for ever: "^ 
\ Or like the borealis race, 

That flit ere you can point their place ; 

Or like the rainbow's lovely form, 

Evanishing amid the storm. 

Nae man can tether time or tide. 
The hour approaches Tam maun ride ; 
That hour, o' night's black arcli the keystane^ 
That dreary hour he mounts his beast on ; 
And sic a night he taks the road in 
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in . 

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last. 
The ratting show'rs rose on the blast ; 
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd, 
Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd : 
That night a^child might.understand, 
The deii had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg, 
A better never lifted leg, 
Tam skelpit on through dub and mire, 
Despising wind, and rain, and frre ; 
Whyles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, 
Whyles crooning o'er some auld Scot's sonnet* 



TAM O' SnANTDll. 215 

Wliyles plnw'ring: round \vi' prudent carea, 
Lest boglos catch liini unawares ; 
Kirk-Alloway was drawiu.ir u'vj^h, 
^Vilcre ghaists and owlets niy,litly cry. 

By this time he was cross the ford, 
AVhorc in the snaw the chapman smoor'd ; 
And past the hirks and meiklestane, 
Wliere drunken CharHe hrak's neck bane; 
And thro' tlie whins, and l)y tiic cairn, 
Where hunters t'and tlie murder 'd bairn; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well. 
Where Muu.ljo's mither hani^'d hersel : 
Before him Doon pouvs all his floods ; 
The doubliuL!: storm roars thro' the woods ; 
The liiJ^htnings lUish from ])ole to pole, 
Near arid more near the thunders roll; 
When glinimeriim- tb.ro' tlie ^Toaning trees 
Kirk-Al!o\vay scem'd in a bl'vv.e ; 
Thro' ilka bore t!ie liesnus were i;lancing, 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing. 

Inspiring, bold John Barleycorn ! 

What dangers thou can'st make us scorn ! 

Wi' tii)penny we fear nae evil ; 

Wi' usquebae we'll face tliR devil ! — 

The swats sae reamd in Tammie's noddle, 

Fair play, he carM n:ie deils a huddle. 

But Ma'i'gie stood right sair astonisli'd. 

Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, 

She ventur'd forward on the light; 

And, wow, Tarn saw an unco sight! 

Warlocks and witches in a dnuce ; 

Nae cotillon l)rent new iVac France, 

But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels. 

Put life and mettle in their heels : 

A winnock-bmiker in the east, 

There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast; 

A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, 

To gie them nnisic was his charge; 

He screw'd the pij)es and garb them skirl. 

Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. 

Cothns stood round, like open presses, 

That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses | 

And by some devilish cantrip slight 

Each in its cauld hand held a light — 

liy which heroic Tarn was able 

To note upon the haly table, 

A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; 

T\va span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns j 

A thief, new cutted frae a rape, 

Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ! 

Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted ; 

Fivo scymetars, wi' murder crusted ; 



81<J BUKNS'S POETICAL WOKKS. 

A garter, whicli a balie had stTans-led. 
A. kuife a father's th^roat had mangled 
Whom his aiu son o' life bereft, 
The grey hairs yet stack to the heft : 
Wi' iiiair o' horril)lc and awfu', 
Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. 

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd and curious, " 
The mirtli and fun grew fast and furious , 
The piper lond and louder blew ; 
The dancers quick a)id quicker flew ; 
They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleek^ 
Till ilkacarhne swat and reckit, 
And coost her diuhhes to the wark, 
And liidcet at it in her sark; 

Kow Tam, oh Tmn, had thacbeen queanf 
A' plump and strapping, in their teens; 
1'lieir sarks, instoa<i o' creesliie flannen, 
15een snav/- white sevontecn-hunder linen! 
Tlieir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 
That ance were pbasli o' guld blue hair, 
1 wad haegi'en them oft" my hurdies, 
For ae blink o' the bonuie hurdies ! 

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, 

Rigwoodie hags, wad spean a foal, 

Louping and flinging on a cummock, 

1 wonder didna turn tliy stoniiich. 

But Tarn kcjui'd what was what, fu' brawlie ; 

There was a winsome wench and walie, 

That night enlisted in the core, 

(Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore ; 

For mony a beast to dead she shot. 

And perish'd mony a bonnie boat, 

And shook baith meikle corn and beec 

And kept the country-side in fear,) 

Her cntl}' sark o' Paisley harn, 

That \\hile a lassie she had worn, 

In longitude though sorely scanty, 

It was her best, and she v/as vauntic — ■ 

Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie. 

That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 

Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches), 

Wad ever grac'd a dance o' witches ! 

But here my muse her wing maun cox^* 

Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r ; 

To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 

(A souple jade she was and Strang,) 

And how Tarn stood like ane bewitch d, 

And thought his very een enrich'd 

Even Satan glowr'd and fidg'd fu' fain, 

4nd hotch'd and blew wi might and mtd 



TRAGIC I'RAG.MENT. 217 

Till first iie caper, s^'iic auither, 

Tarn tint his reason a' thei^ither, 

And roars out, " Weel done. Cutty -sark I" 

And in an instant all was dark : 

And scarcely had he Maggie rallied. 

When out the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi' angi-y fyke, 
When plundering herds assail their byke; 
As open pussie's mortal foes, 
Wlien pop ! she starts bel'ore their nose; 
As eager runs the market-crowd, 
Wlien "Catch the tliief!" resounds aloud; 
So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 
Wi' mony an eldritch screech and holloa. 
Ah, Tarn ! ah, Tarn ! thou'U get thy fairin*? 
In hell they'll roast thee hke a lierrin' ! 
In vain th}- Kate awaits thy coniin' ! 
Kate soon will be a woefu' woniaji ! 
Now, do th}- speedy iitmost, Meg, 
And win the key-stane o" tlie brig ; 
Thero at them thou thy tail may toss, 
A running stream they darena cross ! 
But ere the key-stane she could make, 
The fient a tail she had to shake ! 
For Nannie, far before the rest, 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest. 
And flew at Tarn wi' fnrious ettle. 
But little wist she Maggie's mettle — • 
Ae spring brought off her master hale, 
But left behind her ain grey tail ; 
The carline caught her ]jy the rump, 
, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wlia til is tale o' truth shall read. 
Ilk man and mother's son take heed : 
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd. 
Or eutty-sarks run in your mind. 
Think ! ye may buy the joys o'er dear— 
Kemember Tarn o' Shanter's mare. 



fagir jfniginriit 

All devil as I am, a damned wretch, 
A harden'd stubborn, mirepenting villain, 
Still my heart melts at human wretchedness; 
And with sincere tho' unavaihng sighs, 
I view the helpless children of distress, 
With tears indignant I behold th' oppresst^ 
Kejoicing in the honest man's destruction, 
Whose unsubmitting heart was all his crime. . 
Even you, je helpless crew, 1 pity you; 



218 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

Ye -whom the seeming good think sin to pity, 
Ye poor despisM abandoii'd vagabonds, 
Whom vice, as usual, has turn'd o'er to ruin. 
— Oh, but for kind, tho' ill-requited friends, 
I had been driven forth like you forlorn, 
The most detected, worthless wretch among you 



vj 



Wiiiin, H iirp. 



The wintry west extends his blast, 

And liail a^d rain does blaw ; 
Or the stormy north sends driving forth 

The blinding sleet and snaw : 
While tumbling brown, the burn comes down 

And roars frae bank to brae ; 
And bird and beast in covert rest. 

And pass the hearcless day. 

"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast," 

The joyless winter day. 
Let others fear, to me more dear 

Than all the pride of May : 
The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, 

My griefs it seems to join ; 
The leafless trees my fancy please, 

Their fate resembles mine ! 

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme 

These v/nes of mine fultil, 
Here, rirm, I rest, they must be best, 

Because they are Tbj^ will ; 
Then all I want (oh, do thou grant 

This one request of mine !) 
Since to enjoy Thou dost deny. 

Assist me to resign. 



fflfDER THE PEESSTJ^j; 05 VIOLENT XTSQ'UIWMm 

Oh thou, Great Being ! what thoa art 

Surpasses me to know : 
Yet sure I am, that known to Thee 

Are all Thy works below. 

Tl^p creature here before Thee stands, 

All wretched and distrest ; 
Yet sure those i'ls that wring my soul 
• Obey Thy high b> best. 



219 



Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not act 

From cruelty or wrath! 
Oh, free my weary eyt's f'rora tear% 

Or clo^e theiu fast in death ! 

But if I must afflicted be, 

To suit some wi-e design ; 
Then man iny soul with tirm resolTei^ 

To bear and not repine ! 



SI ^^raijrr, 



ON THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. 

Oh thou unknown, Ahnighty Cause 

Of all my hope and fear ! 
In whose dread presence, ere an honr. 

Perhaps I must appear ! 

If I have wander'd in those paths 

Of life I ought to shun ; 
As something loudlj', in my hreast, 

Remonstrates I have done. 

Tliou know'st that Thou hast formed m^ 
With passions wild and strong ; 

And hst'ning to their witcliing voice 
Has often led me wrong. 

Wlierc human weakness has come short, 

Or nailty stcpt aside, 
Do Thou, A 11 -good ! for such Thou art, 

In shades of darkness hide. 

Where with intention I have err'd, 

No other plea I have, 
But, Thou art good ; and goodness still 

DeUghteth to forgive. 



ON THE SAME OCCASION. 

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene? 

Have 1 so found it full of pleasing charms? 
Some di'ops of joy with draughts of iU betweftnj 

Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing stormat 
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ? 

Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode ? 
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms; 

Itreml)le to approach an angry God, 
And justly smart beneath his sm-avenging rod 



220 BUKNSS POETICAIi WORKS. 

Fain would I siiv " Forgive my foul offence ! ** 

Fain promise never moie lo disobey; 
But should iiiy Author health again dispense. 

Again I might desert ("air virtue's way : 
Again in folly's path might go astray ; 

Again exalt the brute and sink the man j 
Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray, 

Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan? 
Who sm so oft have mourn'd, jet to temptation ran? 

Oh Thou, Great Governor of all below ! 

If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, 

Or still the tumult of the raging sea : 
With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me, 

Those headlong furious passions to confine j 
For all uuiit 1 feel my pow'rs to be, 

To rule their torrent in the hallowed line ; 
Oh, aid me with Thy help. Omnipotence Divine ! 



f Ifgif nil t\}t icatij of IRaiiwt Huissi^aux, 

Now Robin lies in his last lair. 

He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair, 

Cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare, 

Nae mair shall fear him, 
Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care, 

E'er mair come near him. 

To tell the truth, they seldom fash't him. 
Except the moment that they crush't him, 
For sune as chance or faLe had hush't 'em, 

Tho' e'er sac short, 
Then wi' a rhyme or song he lash't 'em. 

And thought it sport. 

Tho' he was bred to kintra wark. 

And counted was baith wight and stark, 

Yet that was never Robin's mark 

To mak a man ; 
But tell him, he was learned and dark, 

Ye roos'd him than ! 



TO THE EEV. ME. JAMES STEVElf. 

On his Text, Mal. iv. 2.— "And they shall go forth, 
and grow up, hke calves of the stall." 

Eight, Sir ! your text I'll prove it true, 

Though Heretics may laugh ; 
For instance, there's yoursel' just noVy 

God knows, an unco calf ! 



THE TWA HERDS. 221 



And shoukl some patron be so kind. 

As bless you wi' a kirk, 
I doubt na, Sir, but then we'll find, 

Ye're still as great a stirk. 

But, if the lover's raptur'd hour 

Sliall ever bo your lot, 
Forbid it, ev'ry I1C41VCUI3' power 

You e'er should bo a Scot ! 

Tj^o', when some kuul, connubial dear, 

Yoiu- but-and-iicn adorns. 
The like has been that you may wear 

A noble head of horns. 

And in your lug, most reverend James, 

To hear you I'oar and rowte, 
Few men 0' sense will doubt your clainM 

To rank rtmang the nowto. 

And when ye're nuud)er'd wi' the dead. 

Below a grassy hillock, 
Wi' justice they may mark your head— 

" Here hes a famous bullock ! " 



OR, THE HOLY TULZIE. 

Oh a' ye 1 ions godly flocks, 
Weel fed oi. pastures orthodox, 
Wlia now will keep you ft-ae the fox, 

Or worrying tykes. 
Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks. 

About the dykes ? 

The twa best herds in a' the wast, 
That e'er gae gospel horn a blast. 
These five and twenty simmers past, 

_ Oh ! dool to tell, 
Ha'e had a bitter black out-cast 
Atween themsel. 

Oh, Moodie, man, and wordy Russell, 
How could you raise so vile a bustle, 
Ye'U see how New-Light hei'ds ndll M'histls 

And think it fine : 
The L — 's cause ne'er got sic a twistle 
Sin' I ha'e mine. 

0, Sirs J whae'er wad lia'e expeckit 

Your duty ye wad sae negleckit, 

Ye wha were ne'er l)y lairds respeckit, 

To wear the plaid, 
But by the brutes themselves eleckit, 

To be tlieir ^-uide. 

u3 



222 BURNS'S POliTICAL WOKKS. 

What flock wi' Moodie's flock could rank, 
Sae hale ;md hearty every shank ! 
Nae pcison'd sour Ariiiinian stanlc, 

He let them taste, 
Frae Calvin's well, aye cle-ir, they drank— 

Oh sic u fcust ! 

The thummart, wil'-cat, bi-ock, and tod, 
Well kenn'd his voice through a' the wood. 
He smelt their ilka hale and rod, 

Baith out and in, 
And wcel he hk'd to shed their bluid, 

And sell their skin , 

Wiiat herd hke Russell tcll'd his ta!o, 
His voice was heard thro' muir and dale, 
He kenn'd the Lord's sheep, ilka tail, 

O'er a' the height, 
And saw gin th»y were sick or hale, 

At the tirst sight, 

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub. 

Or nobly liing the gospel club, 

And New-Light herds could nicely drub, 

Or pay their skin ; 
Could shake them o'er the Inirning dub, 

Or heave them in. 

Sic twa — Oh ! do I live to sec't, 
Sic famous twa should disagrect, 
And names like villain, hypocrite,^ 

Ilk ithcr ri'cn, 
While Ncw-Ligb.t herds, wi' laughin' spite^ 

Say neither's lyin' ! 

A' yc wha tent the gospel fauld, 
There's Duncan deep, a-^d Peebles shaul, 
But chieily thou, apostle 7\.uld, 

We trust in thee, 
That thou wilt work them, het and cauld. 

Till they agree. 

Consider, Sirs, how we're l)eset ; 
There's scarce a new herd that we get 
But comes frae 'mang tl.at cursed set 

I winna name ; 
I hope frae Heav'n to see them yet 

In fier^"^ flame. 

Dah-ymple has been lang our fae, 
M'Gill has wrought us meikle wae, 
And that cnrs'd rascal ca'd I^PQuhae, 

And baith the Shaws, 
That aft ha'e made ns lilack and blae, 

Wi' venuelii' jtaws. 



HOLY WII.LIK's PIIAYEE. 223 

Aukl Wodrow, lang has liat h'd misdiief, 
We thought aye death wad l)ring relief, 
But he lias gotten, to our grief, 

Ane to sucoeed him, 
Achield wha'll soundly buff our beef; 

I incikle dread him. 

And mony a ane that I could tell, 
Wha fain would openly rebel, 
Forbye turn-coats amang oursel, 

There's Suiith for ane, 
I doubt he's but a grey-nick quill, 

And that ye'll fin'. 

Oh, a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills, 

Bj- mosses, meadows, moors, and fells, 

Come, jom your counsel and your skills 

To cowe the lairds, 
And get the brutes the powers tli^mslea 

To choose their herds. 

Then Orthodoxj'^ yet may prance, 
Lnd Learning in a woody dance. 
And that fell cur called Common Sense, 

That bites sae sair, 
Be banish'd o'er the sea to France : 

Let him bark there. 

Then Shaw's and Dahymple's eloquence, 
M'Gill's close nervous excellence, 
Quhae's pathetic manly sense, 

And guid M'Math, 
Wi* Smith, wha thro' the heart can glano^ 

Itlay a' pack aff. 



On Thou, wha in the heavens dost dwell, 
Wha, as it pleasest best tliyscl*, 
Send ane ta heaven and ton to hell, 

A' for Thy glory 
And no for ony guid or ill 

They've done afore Thee! 

I bless and praise Thy matchless might, 
When thousands Tliou hast left in night. 
That I am here afore Th}' sight, 

For gifts and grace, 
A burnin' and a shinin' light 

To a' this place. 

What was I, or my generation, 
That I should get sic exaltation. 



224 BUKNS'S POETICAL WORKS, 

I who deserve sic jxist damnation, 
For broken Ifiws, 

Five thousand years 'tore uiy creation, 
Thio A (jam's cause. 

When frae my mother's womb I lell, 
Thou might hae phmg'd me into heli. 
To gnasli my gums, to weep and wail. 

In Inu-niii' hike, 
Wliere damned devils roar and jxU, 

Chaiu'd to a stake. 

Yet I am here a chosen sample ; 

To show Thy grace is great and ample; 

I'm here a piHar in Thy temple, 

Strong as a rock ; 
A guide, a buckler, an example, 

To.a' Thy flock. 

But yet. Oh Lord, confess I must, 
At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust ; 
And sometimes, too, wi' wardely trust, 

Vile self gets in ; 
But Thou remembers we are dust, 

Dcfil'd in sin. 

Maybe Thou lets this fleshly thorn, 
Beset Thy servant e'en and morn, 
♦ Lest he owre high and proud should turn, 

'Cause he's sae gifted; 
If sae. Thy ban' maun e'en be borne, 

Until Tliou lift it. 

Lord, bless Thy chosen in this place, 
For here Thou hast a chosen race : 
But God confound their stubborn face, 

And blast their name, 
Wha bring thy elders to disgrace 

And public shame. 

Lord, mind Gaw'n Hamilton's deserts, 
He drinks, and s\\'oars, and plays at c 
Yet hae sae mony takin' arts, 

Wi' grat and sma', 
Frae God's ain priests the people's hearts 

He steals awa'. 

And when we chasten'd him therefor^ 
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore. 
As set the world in a roar 

0' lauglnn at us ; — 
Curse Thou his basket and his store, 

Kail and ')otatoe3. 



EPITAPU ON nOLT WILLIB. 225 

Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray'r, 

Against the Presliyf ry of Ayr ; 

Thy strong right hand, Lord, mak it bare 

lipo' their heads, 
Lord, weigh it down, and dinna spare, 

For tlioir misdeeds. 

Oh Lord, iny God ! that ghh-tongu'd Aikilig 

ISiy very heart and saul are qnakin' 

To think how we stood groanin', shakin', 

And swat wi' dread, 
While he wi' hingin' hps and snakin', 

Held np his head. 

Lord, in the day of vengeance try him, 
Lord, visit them wha did employ him. 
And pass not in Tliy mercy hy 'em, 

Nor hear their pray'r; 
But for Thy people's sake destroy 'em, 

And dinna spare. 

But, Lord, remember me and mine, 
Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine. 
That I for gear and grace may shine, 

Excell'd b}'^ nane, 
And a' the glory shall be thine, 

Amen! Amen! * 



f jiituiil; nil Inhi Willih 

Here holy Willie's sair-worn clay 

Taks up its last abode ; 
His soul has ta'cn some other way, 

I fear the left-hand road. 

Stop 1 there he is, as sure's a gun. 
Poor, silly body, see him ; 

Nae wonder he' as black's the grun', 
Observe wha's standing wi' him. 

Your brnnstane devilship, I sec, 
Has got him there before j^e ; 

But hand yoin- nine-tail cat a wee. 
Till auce you've heard my story. 

Your pity I will not implore, 

For pity ye hae nane ; 
Justifo, alas ! has gi'en hnn o'er, 

And mercy's day is gaen. 

But hear me, sir, dell as ye arc, 
Look something to your credit ; 

A coof hkc him wad stain yonrnanm 
If it were keiit ye did it. 
15 



226 BUENS'S rOEEICAb \VOi?K3. 

gpistl? tii Sn|iii imlk, nf Hilimirimrk;, 

ON THK PTJBIICATION OV HIS ESSAYS, 

Oh Goudie, ten-or of the Wliigs, 
TVead of black coats and rcv'reud wigs, 
Sour Bigotry, on her last legs, 

Giniin', looks back, 
Wishiu' the tea Egyptian plagues 

Wad seize you quick. 

Poor, gapin', glowriu' Superstition, 
Wae's me ! she's in a sad condition ; 
Fie 1 bring Black Jock, her state physician 

To see her water. 
41as ! there's ground o' great suspicion 

She'll ne'er get better. 

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple, 
But now she's got an unco ripple ; 
Haste, gie her name up i' the chapel, 

Nigh unto death ; 
See, how she fetches at the thrapple, 

And gasps for breath. 

Enthusiasm's past redemption, 

Gatie in a galloping consumption. 

Not a' the quacks, with a' their guraptioi 

Will ever mend her. 
Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption, 

Death soon will end her. 

*Tis you and Taylor are the chief, 
Wha are to blame for this mischief, 
But gin the Lord's ain fouk gat leave, 

A toom tar barrel 
And twa red peats wad send relief, 

And end the quarrel. 



ENCLOSING- SOME POEMS. 

Oh rough, rude, ready-witted Ilankint], 
The wale of cocks for fun and drinkin', 
There's mony g'idly folks are thinkin* 

Your dreams and tricks 
Will send you, Ivorah-like, a-sinkin', 

Straught to Auld Nick's, 

Ye hae sae mony cracks and cants, 
And in your wicked, drunken rantB| 



IJIIRl) KIMSTLE TO JOHN LAPKA.IK. 

Ve mak a ck'vil o' tlio sainits, 

And fill tlicm fo.n; 

And tli(^n tlicir tailings, Haws, and wants, 
Aro a' seen through. 

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ! 

That holy roUo, oli diiiiia tear it ! 

Spare 't for their sak( s Avha aften wear it, 

Tlie lads in ])lat;k ! 
But your curst w t, when it comes near it, 
lUves 't aft" their back. 

Think, wicked :-^inner, wha ye're skaithing 
It's just tlie blue-gown badge and clsvitlung 
O' saints ; tak that, ye lea'e them naething 

To ken them by, 
Frae ony lun-egonerate heathen 

Jjike you or I. 

I've sent you here some rhyming ware, 
A' that I bargnitiM for, and uuiir, 
Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare, 

1 will expect 
Yon sang, ye'll sen't wi' canny care, 

And no neglect. 
# * * * ' * * * 



September 13, 178*. 

Goon speed and f order to you, Johmiy, 
Guid health, hale ban's and weather bonny, 
Now when ye're nickan down fu' canny 

The staflo' bread. 
May ye ne'er want a stonp o' bran'y 

To clear your head. 

May Boreas never thresh your rigs, 
Nor kick your rickles ail' their legs, 
Sending the stuff o'er muirs and hiiggs 

Like driving wrack; 
But may the tapmast grain the wag3 

Come to the sack. 

I'm bizzie too, and skelpin at it, 

But bitter, daudin' show'rs hae wat it^ 

Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it 

^yi' muckle wark, 
And took ray jotteleg and whatt' it, 

Like ony dark. 



BL'R.Nbt- I'OPTICAL WuEKS. 

It's now twa iiiontli that I'm your debtor. 
For your bvaw, nameless, dateless lettear. 
Abusing me for harsh ill nature 

On holy men, 
While deil a hair j-oursel' ye're better, 

But mair profane. 

But let the kirk folk rin^ their bells, 
Let's sing about our noljU^ sel's ; 
We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills 

To help, or roose us, 
But browster w ives and whisky stiUs, 

They are the muses. 

Your friendship, sir, I winna quat it, 

And if ye mak objections at it, 

Then han' in nieve some day we'll knot it. 

And ivitness take 
And when wi' 'isquel';i3 we've wat it, 

It whnia break. 

But if th.c beast an<1 branks be spar'd 
Till kye be -aun without the herd, 
And u' the vittc^l in the yard, 

A nd thcekit right. 
I mean your ingle-side to guard 

mie winter night. 

Then muse-inspiring aqua vita3 

Shall make us baith sae blythe and witty 

Till ye forget ye're auld and gatty, 

And be as canty 
As ye were nine yenv less than thretty. 

Sweet ane and twenty ! 

But stooks are cowpet wi' the blast, 
And now the siun kecks in the west. 
Then I maun rin amang the rest. 

And quat my chanter; 
Sae I subscribe myself in haste. 

Your's, Eab the Ranter 



September 17, I78aw 

While at the stook the shearers cow'r, 
To shun the bitter, blandin' show'r, 
Or in gukavage rinniu' scow'r, 

To pass the time, 
To yor I dedicate the hour 

In idlerhym'^ 



EPISTLE TO THK REV. JOHN M'MATH. 229 

My inusie. tirM wi' mony a sonnet 

On gown, ;uul !)an, ami douse black bonnet^ 

Is grown rig-lit eerie now she's done it, 

Lost they should blame her. 
And rouse their holy thunder en it, 

And anatheui lier. 

I own 'twas rash, and rather hardy, 
That I, a simple countra bardie. 
Should meddle wi" a pack sae sturdy, 

Wha, if they ken me, 
Can easy, wi' a single wordie, 

Louse li — 11 upon me. 

But I gac mad at their grimaces, 
Their sighiu', cantiu', grace-proud faces, 
Their three-mile pray'rs anil hauf-mile grace* 

Their raxin' conscience, 
Whase greed, revenge, and pride disgraces 

Waur nor their nonsense. 

There's Gawn, misca't waur than a beast, 
Wlia has mair honour in his breast 
Than mony scores as guid's the priest 

Wha sae alms't him : 
And may a bard no crack his jest 

What way they've use't him f 

See him, the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word and deed, 
And shall his fame and honour bleed 

By worthless skellums, 
And not a muse erect her head 

To cowe the blellums ? 

Oh, Pope, had I thy satire's darts, 
To gie the rascals their deserts, 
I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts. 

And tell aloud 
Their jugghn' hocus-pocus arts. 

To claeat the crowd. 

God knows, I'm no the thing I should be^ 
Nor am I ev'n the thing I could be. 
But twenty times I rather would be 

An atheist clean, 
Than under gospel colours hid be, 

Just for a screen. 

An honest man may like a glasa, 
An honest man may like a lasg, 
But mean revenge and malice fauM^ 

He'll still disdain, 
And then cry zeal for gospel lawi^ 

Like .some we ken. 



^30 BUENS'S POETICAL WOaKS. 

They tfike religion in thoir mouth ; 
They talk o' mercy, grace, and truth, 
For what ? — to gie their maUce skouth 

On some puir wi^ht, 
And hunt him down, o'er right and vi:ttt 

To ruin straight. 

All hail, Religion! maid divine! 
Pardon a muse sac mean as mine, 
Who in her rough imperfect line, 

Tlius daurs to name thee ; 
To Btigmatise false fi^ends of thine 

Can ne'er defame thee, 

Tho' hlotcirt anc foul wi' mony a staia. 

And far unworthy of thy train. 

With trembling voice I tune my straitt 

To join with those 
Who boldly daur thy cause maintain 

In spite o' foes : 

In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs. 
In spite o' undermining jol:?, 
In spite o' dark banditti stabs 
At worth andrit 
By scoundrels, ev'n \vi' holy robes, 
* But hellish spite. 

Oh Ayr ! ray dear, my native ground, 
Within thy presbyterial bound 
A candid, lib'ral band is found 

Of pubhc teacheici, 
As men, as Christians, too, renowned. 

And manly preachers. 

Sir, in that circle you are named ; 

Sir, in that circle you are fam'd ; 

And some, by whom your doctrine's blam*d» 

(Which gies you honour,) 
£y'n, Sir, by them your heart's esteem' d. 

And winning manner. 

Pardon this freedom I have ta'en, 
And if impertinent I've been, 
Impute it not, good Sir, in ane 

Whase heart ne'er wrang'd |f 
But to his utniost would befriend 

Ought that belang'd ye. 



aHE AlHERiCAN WAR. 231 

Sijf Imrriraii WiiL 

A FRAGMENT. 

Whek Guildford good our pilot stood. 

And did our lielui thraw, man, 
Ae night, id tea, began a plea, 

Within America, man : 
Then up they g'fit the niaskin'-pat, 

And in the sea did jaw, man ; 
And did nae less., in full Congress, 

Than quite refuse our law, man. 

Tlien thro' the lakes IMontgomery takes 

I wat lie was na slaw, man : 
Do'vn Lovvrie's burn he took a turn. 

And Carleton did ca', man ; 
But yet, what reck, he, at Quebec, 

Montgomery-like, did fa', man, 
Wi' sword in hand, before his band, 

Amang his en'mies a', man. 

Poor Tammy G.ige, within a cage, 

Was kept at Boston ha', man ; 
Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowo 

For Philadelphia, man : 
Wi' sword and gun he thought a sin 

Guid Christian bluid to draw, man 
But at Now York, n-i' knife and fork, 

Sir-loin he hackeci sma', man. 

BurgojTie gaed up, lilce spur and whip, 

Till Frazer brave did fa', man; 
Then lost his way, ae misty day, 

In Saratoga shaw, man. 
Cornwallis fought as lang's lie douglit, 

And did the buckskins claw, man; 
But Clinton's glaive, frae rust to save. 

He hung it to the wa', man. 

Then Montague, and Guildford, too, 1 

Began to fear a fa', man ; ] 

And Sackville dour, wha stood the stouro^ ! 

The German Chief to thraw, man : 1 i 

For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk, 

Nae mercy had at a', man ; 
And Charlie' Fox threw by the box, 

And lows'd his tinkler jaw, man. 

Then Rockingham took up the game, 

Till death did on him ca', man; 
When Shelbourne meek held up his cheel^ 

Conform to gospel law, man. 



238 BTJENS'S POETICAL -VrOEKS. 

Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise 
They odd his measures thraw, man, 

For North and Fox united stocks, 
And bore him to the wa', man. 

Then clubs and hearts were Charlie's cartes, 

He swept the stakes awa', man, 
Till the diamond's ace, of Indian race, 

Led him a sair faux pas, man ; 
The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads, 

On Chatham's boy did ca', man ; 
And Scotland drew her pipe and blew, 

" Up, Wiihe, waur them a', man ! " 

Behind the throne then Grenville's gone, 

A secret word or twa, man ; 
"While slee Dundas arous'd the class, 

Be-north the lloman wa', man ; 
And Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graith, 

(Inspir'd bardies saw, man,) 
Wi' kindhng eyes cried, " WiUie,rise ! 

Would I hae fear'd them a', man ! " 

But, word and blow, North, Fox, and Co. 

Gowff'd Willie like a ba', man, 
TiU Suthron raise, and coost their claise 

Behind him in a raw, man ; 
And Caledon threw by the drone. 

And did her whittle draw, man ; 
And swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt and blood. 

To make it euid in law, man. 

# * * # « 



^Efliiii f jiistlB til Mm, 

A BROTHEE POET. 
AULD NEIBOR, 

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, 
For your auld-farrant, frien'ly letter; 
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter, 

Ye speak sae fair, 
For my puir, siUy, rhymin' clatter 

Some less maun sair. 

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle s 
Lang may your elbock jink and diddle, 
To cheer you thro' the weary widdle 

0' war'ly cares, 
T^ll bairns' bairns kindly cuddle 

Your auld gray hairs. 

But, Davie, I'm red ye're glaikit; 
I'm tauld the muse ve hae neglecldt j 



<i33 



And sdf it's sae, ye sud be licket 

Until ye fyke ; 
Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faiket, 

Bo hain't wba like. 

FoT me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, 
Rivin' the words to gar them clink ; 
Wbyles daez't \vi' love whyles daez't wi' drink 

Wi' jads or masons ; 
And whyles, but aye owre late, I think, 

Braw sober lessons. 

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, 
Commen' me to the bardie clan ; 
Except it be some idle plan 

O' rhymiu' clink, 
The devil-haet, that I sud ban, 

They ever think. 

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o'livin 
Nae caves to gie us joy or grievin' ; 
But just the pouchie put the nieve in, 

And while ought's there. 
Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin', 

And fash nae mair. 

Leeze me on rh3^iie ! it's aj'e a treasure, 
My chief, amaist my only pleasure, 
At hame, at Iiel', at wark, or leisure, 
My Muse, poor hizzie ! 
Tho' rough and raploch be her measure. 
She's seldom lazy, 

Haud to tlie Muse, my dainty Davie, 
The warl' may play j'ou monie a shavie ; 
But for the JVIrxse, she'll never leave ye, 

Tho' e'er sae puir, 
Na, even the' limpin Avi' the spavie 

Frae door to door. 



All hail ! inexorable lord ! 

At;^ whose destruction- breathing word 

The mightiest empires fall! 
Thy cruel, woe-delighted train, 
The ministers of grief and pain, 

A sullen welcome, all ! 
With stem-resolv'd, despairing eye, 

I see each aimed dart ! 
For one has cut my dearest tie. 
And quivers in my heart. 
Then low'ring and pouring. 

The storm no more I di-cad ; 
Though thick' ning and black'ning, 
Round my devoted head. v 3 



2?A BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

And thovi, g^i'im pow'v, by life abhorr'd, 
While lite a pleasure can afiord, 

Oh hear a wretch's prayer ! 
No more I shrink appall'd, afraid; 
I court, I bes tiiy friendly aid, 

To close this scene of care ! 
When shall luy soul, in silent peace. 

Resign life's joyless day ; 
My weary heart its throbbings cease, 
Cold mould'ring in the clay ? 
No fear more, no tear more, 
To stair, my bfeiess faco; 
Enclasped, and grasped 
Within thv cold embrace ! 



SllJ first m ^rrsrs of tlji? Hiiirtrtiitlj f Ml©. 

Oh Tliou, the First, tl.e Greatost Frieml 

Of all the human race ! 
Wliose strong ngiit hand has fv«r been 

Their stay and dwelling place ! 

Before the mountains lioav'd their heads, 

Beneath Thy forn)ing hand, 
Before this pondei-ous giolie itself 

Arose at Thy command ; 

That Pow'r which raised and still apholds 

This «niversal frame, 
From countless, unbeginning timo 

Was ever still the same. 

Those mighty penods of years, 

Which seem to us so vast, 
Appear no more before Th}' sight 

Than yesterday that's past. 

Thou giv'st the word : Thy creature, man. 

Is to existence brought ; 
Again Thou say'st, " Ye sons of men, , 

Return ye into nought i " 



Thou layest them, with all their 

In everlasting sleep ; 
As with a flood Thou tak'st them off 

With uverv/helming sweep. 

They flourish like tlio morning llow'r 
In beantj^'s ])ride array 'd; 

But long 'ere night, cut down, it lie* 
All wither'd and decay'd. 



TO A LOUSB. 235 



% first f salm. 



The man, in life wherover plac'd. 

Hath happiness in store, 
Wlio walks not in the wicked's way, 

Nor learns their guilty lore ! 
Nor from the seat of scornful pride 

Casts forth his eyes abroad, 
But with humility and awe 

Still vvalks before his God. 

That man shall flourish like the trees 

Which by the streamlets grow ; 
The fruitful top is spread on high, 

And tirm the root below. 
But he whose blossom buds it guilty 

Shall to the ground ba cast, 
And, like the rootless stubble, tost 

Befroe the sweeping blast. 
For why ? that God the good adore 

Hath giv'n them peace and rest. 
But hath decreed that wicked men 

Shall ne'er be truly blest. 



TO A LOUSE, 

OS SEEING ONE OS A LADt's BONNET AT CHXJKCaf, 

Ha ! whare ye gaun, ye crowhn' ferlie I 
Your impudence protects you sairly : 
I canna say but ye strunt rarely, 

Owre gauze and lace ; 
Tho', faith, I fear ye dine but sparely 

On sic a place. 

Ye ugly, creeping, blastit wonner. 
Detested shunn'd, by saunt and sinner, 
How dare you set your feet upon her 

Sae tine a lady I 
Gae son\ewhere else, and seek your dinner 

On some poor body. 

Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle;, 
There ye may creep, and sprawl, andsprattfe 
Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle, 

In shoals and nations ; 
Whare horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle 

Your thick plantations. 

Now baud you there, ye're out o' sight, 
Below the fatt'reiis, snug and tight; 



23fi 



Na, fiiitl), ye yet! ye'l] no be right 

Till ye'vc got on it, 
TliO veratapmost, tow'ring height 

O' Miss's boiiiict. 

My sooth, ri'.<:lit IiaiiM ye sot youvnose out 
As plump and [ivvy as onygTO/.et; 
Oh for BOino rank, mercurial rozet, 

Or feli, red siiiedduni, 
I'd gie j"OU sic a hearty doseo't, 

Wad dress your droddum ! 

I wad na heeii surpns'd to spy 
You on an auld wife's llamien toy: 
Or aihiins some bit duddic boy, 

On's wylieeoat; 
Uut JMiss's hue Lnnardi ! fie! ' 

How daur ye do"t ? 

Oh, Jeimy, diima toss your head, 
And set your beauties a' abread; 
Ye little ken what cursed speed 

The blastie's inakin' ! 
Thae winks and tinger-euds, I di'eadj 

Are notice takin' ! 

Oh wad some power the giitie gie us 
To see oursels as others see us ! 
It wad Irae mouy a blunder free us, 

And foolish notion ; 
Wh'.d airs in dress and gait wad lea'fc MB, 

And ev'n devotion I 



n SniuMitnrif. 



W ANSWEE 10 A aiANPATE BT THE SUEVETOB Of tXB 

TAXES. 

SiK, as yo\ir mandate did request, 
1 send you hero a faithfu' list 
O' gudes and gear, and a' my graith, 
To which I'm clear to gie my aith. 

Imprimis, then, fo^' carriage cattle, 
I have four brutes o' galliint mettle, 
As over drew afore a pettle. 
My han' afore's agude auld has-been 
And wight and winfu' a' his days been. 
My ban' ahin's a v/eel-iraun tilly. 



^31 



But ance, whan in iny wooinsr pnde, 

I like a blocklu-jid boost to ride, 

Tliewilfu' creature sao I pat to, 

(L— d pardon a' my sins and that too!) 

1 phiy'd n\v tilly sic asliavie, 

Slie's a'bodevilM with the spavie. 

JMy fur anin's a wordy beast, 

As e'er in tup.- vv tow was trac'd. 

The fourth's a Hialdaud Donald hastie, 

A d — n'd red wuil Killnirnio blastie! 

Forbye a cowte o' cowtes the wale, 

As ever ran aibre a, tail. 

If he l'<e spar'd to be a beast, 

He'll draw me fifteen pun' at least — 

Wheel carriages 1 hae but few, 

Three carts, andtwa a feckly new ; 

Ae auld wheel!)ar.row, niair for token, 

Ae leg and baith the trams are broken; 

I made a poker o' tho spin'le. 

And my auld mithei brunt the trin'le. 

For men, I've three mischievous boys, 
Run deils for rartin' and for noise ; 
A sraudsman auc, h thrasher t' other, 
Wee Davock bauds the nowte in fotb.er, 
I rule them, as I ou<,ht, discreetly. 
And aften labour them comijletely; 
And ayi- on Sundays duly, nightly, 
I on the Questions targe them tiglitly ! 
Till, faith, wee Davock's turn'd sae gleg, 
Though scarcely langev than your leg, 
He'll screed you afll' Eff<!ctual Calling- 
As fast as guy in the dwalling. 
I've nane in female servau' station, 
(L — d keep me aye frae a' temptation!) 
I hae nae wife — and that my bliss is, 
A,id \-e have laid nae tax on misses ; 
A' ' then, if kirk folk diima clutch me, 
1 ken the devils dare na touch me. 
Wi weans I'm mair than weel contented, 
Heav'n sent me ane mae than I wanted, 
My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess, 
She stares the daddy in her face. 
Enough of aught ye like but grace ; 
But her, my bonny, sweet, wee lady, 
I've -paid enough for her already, 
And gin ye tax her or her mither, 
B' the L — d, ye'se get them a' thegither. 

Anr) rinw n'mpiiiber, Mr. Aikin, 
N-t<> kind (if lie. xirit- ■ ur I'm takiii' ; 
Tbr.MirtMMd d(;b f t lif I'll paidle, 
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ; 



238 BUKXS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 

My travel ae on foot I'll shank it, 
I've sturdy bearers, Gude be thankit, 
Sae dinna put me in youv buke, 
Nor for my ten white shillings luke. 

This list wi' my ain hand I've wrote it. 
The day and date as under noted ; 
Then know all ye whom it concerns, 
Subscripsi InUc, 

ROBEET BUEHS, 

Mossgiel, Fehruari/ 22, 1786. 



a M^it tn §um iiimiltflii 

MAUCHLINE, 
(eecommending a. box), 

Mossgiel, May 3, 1786k 

I HOLD it, Sir, my bounden duty, 
To warn you how that Master Tootie, 

Alias Laird M'Gaun, 
Was here to hire you lad away, 
'Bout whom ye spak the tither day, 

And wad liae don't aif han' ; 
But lest he learn the callan tricks, 

As, faith, I muckle doubt him, 
Like scrapia out auld Crummle's nicks, 
And telUn' liea about them : 
As lieve then, I'd have then. 

Your clerkship he should sair, 
If sae be, ye may be 
Not fitted other where. 

Aitho' 1 say't, he's gleg enough, 

And 'bout a house that's rude and rough. 

The boy might learn to swear ; 
But then wi' you he'll be sae taught. 
An' get sic fair example straught, 

I havena ony fear. 

Ye'U catechise him every quirk. 

And shore him weel wi' hell ; 

And gar him follow to the kirk— 

—Aye when ye gang yoursel. 

If ye then maun be then 

Frae hame this comin' Friday, 
Then please. Sir, to lea'e. Sir, 
The orders wi' youv lady. 

My word of honoui- 1 hac gien, 

In Paisley John's, that night at e'en. 



WILLIE CUALMEaa. 239 



To meet the world's wonn ; 
To try to get the twa to gree, 
And name the airless and the fee, 

In legal mode and form : 
I ken he weel a snick can draw, 
When simple bodies let him ; 
And if a devil be at a,' 

lu faith he's sure to get him, 
To phrase you, and praise you, 
Ye ken your Laureat scorns : 
The pray'r still, you share still, 
Of grateful Minstrel Bukns. 



WiWh ilyMm. 



Wi' braw new branks in mickle pride, 

And eke a braw new brechan. 
My Pegasus I'm got astride, 

And up Parnivssus pecliin; 
Whyles owre a bush wi' downward crtwL. 

The doited beastie stammers ; 
Then up he gets and off he sets 

For sake o' Willie Chalmers. 

I doubt na, lass, that weel-kenn'd name 

May cost a pair o' blushes ; 
I am nae stranger to your fame, 

Nor his warm, urged wishes. 
Your bonnie face sae mild and sweet, 

Plis honest heart enamours, 
And faith ye'll no be lost a whit, 

Tho' waired on Wilhe Chalmers. 

Auld truth hersel' might swear ye're faSS; 

And honour safely back her. 
And modesty assume your air. 

And ne'er a ane mis+ake her : 
And sic twa love-inspiring een 

]Might fire ev'u holy Palmers ; 
Nae wonder then they've fatal been 

To honest Willie Chalmers. 

I doubt na fortime ma}' you shore 

Some mim-mou'd pouther'd priestw^ 
Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore. 

And bantl upon his breastie : 
But oh ! what signifies to you 

His lexicons and grammars: 
The foeliui.' heart's tlie royal blue. 

And that's wi' Willie Chalmers. 



wo BUKNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

Some gapin', glovvrin', countra laird 

May warsle for your favour ; 
May claw his lug, and straik his beard, 

And hoast up some palaver. 
My bonnie maid, before ye wed 

Sic clumsj'-witted hammers, 
Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp 

Awa' wi' Willie Chalmers. 

Forgive the Bard ! my fond regard 

For ane that shares my bosom, 
Inspires my muse to gie'm his dues, 

For deil a hair I roose him. 
May i^ovv'ers aboon unite j'ou soon, 

And fructify your amours, 
And every year come in mair dear 

To you and Willie Chalmers. 



£1111^5 mtitim u E lank jBntf. 

Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf, 

Fell source o' a' mj-- woe and grief: 

For lack o' thee I've lost my lass, 

For lack o' thee I scrimp mj'- glass. 

I see the children of affliction 

Unaided, through thy curs'd restriction : 

I've seen the oppressor's cruel smile 

Amid his hapless victim's spoil, 

And, for thy potence, vainly wish'd 

To crush the villain in the dust. 

For lack o' thee I leave this much-loved 

shore. 
Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more, 
B. B.— Kyle. 



Humid seal of soft affections, 
Tend'rest pledge of future bliss, 

Dearest tie of j'oung connections. 
Love's first snow-drop, virgin kiss. 

Speaking silence, dumb confession. 
Passion's birth, and infants' play. 

Dove-like fondness, chaste concession, 
Glowing dawn of brighter day. 

Sorrowing joy, adieu's last action. 

When ling'ring hps no more must join; 

What words can ever speak affection, 
So thrilling and sincere as thine ! 



TEKSES. 241 

^mm mrittBii nnkr ninknt gmt 

Accept the gift a friend sincere 

Wad on thy worth he pressing ; 
Remenihranee oft may start a tear, 
But oh ! that tenderness forhear, 

Though 'twad my son-ows lessen. 

My morning raise sae clear and fair, 

I thought sair storms wad never 
Bedew the scene; hut grief and care 
In wildest fur}- hae made hare 

My peace, my hope, for ever ! 

You think I'm glad ; oh, I pay weel 

For a' the joy I borrow; 
In solitude — then, then I feel 
I canna to myseU conceal 

My deeply-ranklin' sorrow. V 

Farewell ; within thy hosom free 

A sigh may whyles awaken : 
A tear may wet thy laughin' e'e, 
For Scotia's sons— ance gay like thee— 

Now hopeless, comfortless, forsaken ! 



LTINS- AT A FEIEND's HOUSE ONE NIGHT, THB AVTHOl 
LEFT THE FOLLOWING 

In the Room where he slept. 

Oh Thou, dread Power, who reign'st above, 

I know Thou w-ilt me hear, 
When for this scene of peace and love 

I make my prayer sincere ! 

The hoary sire — the mortal stroke, 

Long, long be pleased to spare, 
To bless his lilial little flock 

And show what good men are. 

She, who her lovely offspring eyes 

With tender hopes and fears, 
Oh, bless her with a mother's joys, 

But spare a mother's tears ! 

Their hope, their stay, their darhng youth. 

In manhood's dawning Ijlush — 
Bless him, Thou God of love and truth, 

Up to a narent's wisli ! 

16 • ^ 



242 BUENS S POETICAL WORKS. 

The beauteous, sovapli sister-band, 
With eaniost tears I pray, 

Thou know'st the. snares on every hand- 
Guide Thou their steps alway. 

When soon or Lite they reach that coast^ 
O'er hfe's rough ocean driven, 

May the}' rejoice, no wanderev lost, 
A family in heaven ! 



TO MR, M'ADAM, 

OP CRAIGEN-GILLAN. 

Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card, 

1 trow it made me j)roud ; 
" See wha taks notice o' the bard ! " 

I lap and cry fu' loud 

Now deil-ma-care about their jaw. 
The senseless, gawky million : 

I'll cock my nose a'ooon them a' — ■ 
I'm roos'd by Craigen-giilar.! 

'Twas noble, Sir; 'twas like yoursel', 
To grant your high protection : 

A great man's smile, ye ken fu' well, 
Is aye a blest infection. 

Tlio' by his banes, who in a tub 
Match'd Macedonian Sandy ! 

On my ain legs, thro' dirt and dub, 
I independent stand aye. 

Axii wLco those legs to guid, warm kaT 
Wi' welcome canna bear me ! 

A lee dj'ke-side, a sybow-tail, 
A barley-scone shall cheer me. 

Heaven spaie you lang to kiss the breath 

O many flow'ry simmers ! 
And bless youi bonnie lassies baith — 

I'm told they're loosome kimmers ! 

And God olcss j'oung Dunaskin's laird, 

The blossom of our gentry ! 
And may he wear an old man's beard, 
A credit to his country. 



LINES ON MKETING WITH BASIL, LOED DAEE. 2i3 

LINES ON MEETING WITH lUSIL, LORD DAER, 

This wot ye all whom it concerns, 
I, ]\hymer Kobin, alias Huvns, 

October, twenty-third, 
A ne'er-to-be-for<rotten day, 
Sae far I sprachled up the brae, 

I dinncr'd wi' a Lord. 

I've been at dnicken writers' feasts, 
Nay, been bitch-fou 'mang godly priests, 

Wi' rev'rcnce be it spoken ; 
I've ev'n joiu'd the honour'd jorum, 
When mighty squireships of the quorum. 

Their hydra drouth did slokea. 

But wi' a Lord ! — stand out my shin, 
A Loi'd — a Peer — an Earl's son ! 

L'^p higher yet my bonnet ! 
And sic a Lord ! — lang Scotch ells twa, 
Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a', 

As I look o'er my sonnet ! 

Bat, oh ! for Hogarth's magic pow'r ! 
To show Sir Bardie's willyart glow'r. 

And how he star'd and staxniuerd 
When goavan, as if led wi' branks, 
And stumpin' on his ploughman shanks. 

He in the parlour hammer'd. 

I sliding shelter'd in a nook, 
And at his Lordship steal 't a look. 

Like some portentous omen : 
Except good sense and social glee. 
And (what surpi-ised me) modesty, 

I marked nought uncommon. 

I watch'd the sj^iiptoms o' the great, 
The gentle pride, the lordly state. 

The arrogant assuming; 
The fient a pride, nae pride had he. 
Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see, 

Mair than an honest ploughman. 

Then from his Lordship I shall learn, 
Henceforth to meet with unconcern 

One rank as weel's another; 
J7A'* honest worth j' man need care 
To ir:eet with noble youthful Daer, 

For he but meets a brother. 



244 BUKNS'S POETICAi WORKS. 

Hail, thairm-inspirin', rattliii' Willie, 
Though fortune's road be rough and hilly 
To every fiddling, rhyming biUie, 

We never heed, 
But take it like the nnhack'd filly, 

Proud o' her speed. 

When idly goavan whyles we saunter 
Yirr, fancy barks, awa we canter 
Uphill, down brae, till some mishanter 

Some black bog-hole, 
Arrests us, then tlie scathe and banter 

We're forced to thole. 

Hale be your heart ! — hale be your fiddle ! 
Lang maj' your elbock jink and diddle, 
To cheer you through the weary \viddle 

O' this \\-ild warl', 
Until you on a cruramock driddle 

A grey hair'd carle. 

Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon. 
Heaven send your heart-strings aye in tanfei 
And screw your temper pins aboon 

A fifth or inair. 
The melancholious, lazy croon 

O' cankrie care. 

May still your life, from day to day, 

Nae " lente largo " in the play. 

But " allegretto forte " gay, 
Harmonious flow 

A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey- 
Encore! bravo! 

A blessing on the cheery gang, 
Wha dearly like a jig or sang, 
And never think o' right or wrang 

By squai-e and rule. 
But as the clegs o' feeling stang 

Are wise or fool. 

My hand- waled curse keep hard in chase 
The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race, 
Wha count on poortith as disgrace — 

Their tuneless hearts ! 
May fireside discords jar a base 

To a' their parts ! 

But come, your hand, my careless brith^, 
T* th' ither warl', if there's anither — 



EPISTLE TO .MAJOR LOOA». 2ift 

And that there is I've little swither 

About the matter — 
"We :heek for chow shall jog thegither; 

I'se ne'er bid better. 

"We've faults and failings — granted clearly, 
We're frail, backsliding mortals merely, 
Eve's bonny squad priests wyte them sheerly 

For our grand fa' ; 
But still, but still, I like them dearly— 

God bless them a' ! 

Ochon for poor Castalian drinkers, 
"When they fa' foul o' earthly j inkers, 
The witching, cin-s'd, delicious bhnkers 

Hae put me hyte, 
And gart me weet my waukrifo winkers, 

Wi' giruin' spite. 

But by yon moon ! and that's high swearin*. 
And every star within my hcfirin', 
And by her ecu wlia was a dear ane ! 

I'll ne'er iV rget ; 
I hope to gie the j ads a clearin' 

In fair play j-et. 

My loss I mourn, but not repent it, 
I'll seek my pursie whare tint it, 
Ance to the Indies I were wonted, 

Some cantrip hour, 
By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted, 

Then, vlve V amour ! 

Faites mes ha-issemains resjpectueuses, 

To sentimental sister Susie, 

And honest Lucky ; no to roose you. 

Ye may be proud, 
That sic a couple fate allows ye 

To grace your blood. 

Nae mair at present can I measure 

And trowth, my rhymiun' ware's nae treasur* 

But when in Ayr, some half- hour's leisure, 

Be't light, be't d-irk. 
Sir bard will do himself the deasure 

To caU at Park. 

Robert Bukss, » 

Mossgiel, dOth October, 1786. 

78 



246 BUENS'S POETICAL WOKKS. 



LAMENT. 

WEIlTEir WHEN THE POET WAS ABOCT TO LEATB 
SCOTLAND. 

O'ee the mist -shrouded cliffs of the lone mountain stra3'ing, 
Where the wild winds of winter incessantly rave, 

What woes wring my heart while intently surveyiLg 
The storm's gloomy path on the breast of the wave. 

Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail, 

'Ere ye toss nie afar from my lov'd native shore ! 

Where the flower which bloom'd sweetest in Coila's gi'een rai^, 
The pjide of my bosom, m}' Mary's nu more. 

No more by the banks of the streamlet we'll wander, 
And smile at the moon's rimpled face in the wave; 

No more shall my arms cling with fondness around her, 
' For the dew-drops of morning tail cold on her grave. 

No more shall the soft thrill of love warm ray breast, 
1 haste with the storm to a far distant shore ; 

Where, unknown, unlamented, my aslies shall rest, 
And joy shall revisit my bosom no more. 



ON A SCOTCH BARD. 

GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. 

A' ye, wha live by sowps o' drink, 
A' ye, wha live by crambo-clink, 
A' ye, who live and never think, 

Come, monrii wi' me! 
Our billie's gi'en us a' jink. 

And ovvre the sea. 

Lament him a' ye rantin core, 
Wha dearly like a random-spiore, 
Nae mair he'll join the merry roar 

In social key ; 
For now h;?' a' en anither shore, 
And owre the sea ! 

Tne boniv. Ia»s-:>^i5 weel may miss him, 
-And in the'r desc petitions place him : 
The widows, wives, and a' may bless hxsilf 

With tearfu' e'e ; 
For weel I wat they'll sairl^' miss him 
That's owro the sea. 



ON A SCOTCn BAKU. 

Oh, forluue, thej'- ha'o room to grumble ; 
Hadst thou ta'en afi' some drowsj' bumble^ 
Wha can do nought but fyke iftid fumble^ 

'Twutl been na plea ; 
But Le was gleg as ony wumble, 

That's owre the sca. 

Auld canty Kyle may weepers wear, 
And stain them wi' the saut, saut tear; 
'TwiU make her poor auld heart, I fear. 

In Ihuders flee; 
He was her iaureat niouy a year. 

That's owre the sea. 

He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west i 
Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; 
A jiUet brak his heart at last, 

lU ma}^ she he ! 

So, took a berth afore the mast, 

And ov\Te the sea. 

To tremble under fortune's cummock. 
On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, 
"Wi' his proud, independent stomach, 

, Could ill agree ; 

So row t his hurdies in a hammock, 
And owTe the sea. 

He ne'er was gi'en to great misguiding 
Yet coin his pouches wad na hide in ; 
Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding — 

He dealt it free : 
The muse was a' that he took pride in, 

That's owre the sea. 

Jamaica bodies, use him weel, 
And hap him in a cozy biel ; 
Ye'll find him aye a dainty cliiel, 

And fou' o' glee ; 
He wad na wrang'd the vera deil, 

That's owre the sea. 

Fareweel, my rhyme-compoaing billio , 
Your native soil was right iU-wiilie; 
But may ye flourish like a lily, 

Now bonnilie ! 
I'll toast ye in my liinimost gill'"*^ 

Tho' 'jrtTe the seai 



2^ burns's poetical wokk.s. 

Written on the ]5la>'k Leaf of a Copt ov thb 
Poems, peesented to an old svyeetheabt, 

-THEN MaEKIED. 

Once fondl}' lov'd and still remembered dear, , 

Sweet earh' olyci^t of my youthful vows. 

Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere, 
Friendship ! 'tis all cold duty now allows. 

And when you read the simple artless rhymes, 
One friendly sigh for him — he asks no more. 
Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes, 
• Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar. 



THE FAREWELL. 

" The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer, 
Or what does he regard his single \voes ? 
But when, alas ! he multiplies himself, 
To dearer selves, to the lov'd tender fair, 
To those whose bliss, whose beings hang upor bin. 
To helpless children ! — tlien, oh then ! he feels 
The point of misery I'est'ring in his heart, 
And weakly weeps his fortune like a coward. 
Such, such am I ! undone ! " 

Thomson's Edward and JEleavorm, 

Farewell, old Scotia's bleak domains 
Far dearer than the torrid plains, 

Wliere rich anaua's blow ! 
Farewell, a mother's blessing dear, 
A brother's sigh, a sister's tear. 

My Jean's heart-rending throe ! 
Farewell, my Bess ! tho' thou'rt bereft 
■ Of my parental care, 
A faithful brother I have left. 
My part in him thou'lt shaie ; 
Adieu too, to you too, 

Mj-^ Smith, my bosom frien' j 
When kindlj' j <^u mind me, 
Oh then befnaid my Jean. 

Wliat bursting anguish tears my heart! 
From thee, my Jenny, must I part ' 

Thou, weeping, answerest " No ! '* 
Alas ! "misfortune stares my face. 
And points to ruin and disgrace, 

I for thy sake umst go ! 
Thee, Hamilton, and Aikin dear 

A grateful, warm adieu ! 
I, with a much indebted tear, 

Shall still rememl)cr you I 



lO A UAGGI8. 249 

All hail then, tlio irale then, 

Waits lue from thee, dear shore 1 
It rustles, and whistles— 

I'll uever see thee more ! 



TO A HAGGIS. 

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, 
Great eliiettain o' the ])ud(lin' race ! 
Ahoon them a' ye tak your place, 

Painch, tripe, or thairm; 
Weel are ye wordy of a grace 

As king's my arm. 

The groaning trencher there ye fill. 
Your hurdies like a distant hill, 
Your pin wad help to mend a mill 

In time o' need, 
Wliile through >'our pores the dews distil 

Like amber head. 

His knife see rustic labour dight. 
And cut you up wi' ready slight, 
Trenching your gushing entrails bright 

Like ony ditch ; 
And fhen, oh what a glorious sight, 

Warm-reekin', rich 1 

Then horn for horn tliey stretch and strive 
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, 
Till a' their weel-swallVl kytes belyve 

Are bent like drums ; 
Then auld guid man, maist hke to rive, 

Bethankit hums. 

Is there that o'er his French ragout. 
Or Oho that wad staw .a sow, 
Or fricassee wad make her spew 

Wi' perfect scunner, 
Looks do\vn wi' sneering, scornfu' view 

On sic a dini.er. 

Poor devil ! see him owre his trash, 

As feckless as a wither'd rash. 

His spindle shank a guid whip-lash, 

His hievc a nit ; 
Thro' bloody flood or field to dasb- 

Oh how unfit ! 

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed, 

The trembling earth resounds his treftd. 

Clap in his walie nieve a blade, 

He'll mak it whissle ; 
And legs, and arms, and heads will sn 

Like taps of thrissle. 



BUKNS S POETICAL WOE.K8. 

Ye pow'rs, who mak mankind your care, 
And dish them out their bill o' fare, 
Auld Scotland wants nae skinkiug ware 

Thatjaups in luggies! 
But, if ye wish her gratefu' praj'er, 

Gie her a Haggis. 



TO MISS LOGAIT, WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS, 
As a New-Year's Gift, Jan. 1, 1787. 

Again the silent wheels of time 
Their annual round have driven, 

And j'ou, though scarce in maiden prima, 
Are so much nearer Heaven. 

No gifts have I from Indian coasts, 

The infant year to hail ; 
I send you more than India boasts 

In Edwin's simple tale. 

Our sex with guile and faithless love 

Is charg'd, perhaps, too true ; 
But may, dear maid, each lover prove 

An Edwin still to you. 



f xtJinjinru in tljB Cnirrt nf ^twt 

TUNE — CillicranTcie. 
LOUD ADVOCATE. 

He chench'd his pamphlets in his fist, 

He quoted and he hinted, 
TiU in a declamation-mist. 

His argument he tint it : 
He gaped for't, he graiped for't. 

He fand it was awa, man ; 
But what his common-sense came sbor&i 

He eked out wi' law, man. 

MR. EESKINE. 

Collected Haii-y stood a wee. 

Then open'd out his arm, man : 
His lordship sat wi' ruefu' e'e. 

And ey'd the gathering storm, man} 
Like wind-di'iv'n hail, it did assail. 

Or ton-ents owre a linn, man; 
The bench sae wise hft up their ey«^ 

Half-wauken'd wi' the din, man. 



TO TJiU ttUlUWlFE OF WANCUjrfi ilOL'SB. S5l 

TO THE GUIDWIFE OF WANCIIOPE IIOWIS^ 

"M}'' cantie, witty, rhymnii)g ploughman, 
I Imtiiins iloubt it is na' true, man, 
That ye between tlie stilts was bred, 
Wi' ploughmen schooled, wi' ploughmen fed; 
I doubt it sail-, ye've drawn your knowledge 
Either Irae grammar-scliool or college. 
Guid troth, your saul and bod^' baith 
War better fed, I'd gie my aith, 
Than theirs who sup sour milk and parritch. 
And buu)mil througli the single CamtcU 
Whaever heard the ploughman speak, 
Could tell gif Homer was a Greek ! 
He'd llee as soon upon a cudgel, 
As get a single line of Virgil. 
And then sae slee ye crack your jokes 
O' Willie Pitt and Charlie Fox : 
Our great men a' sae weel descrive, 
And how to gar the nation thrive, 
Ane raaist wad swear ye dwelt amang them. 
And as ye saw them sae ye sang them. 
IJut be ye ploughman, be ye peer, 
Ye are a fiumy blade, I swear ; 
And though tlae cauld I ill can bide. 
Yet twenty miles and mair I'd ride 
O'er moss and moor, and never grumble, 
Though my auld yad should gif; a stumble, 
To crack a winter night wi' thee, 
And hear thy sangs and sonnets slee, 
Oh gif I kenn'd but where .ye baide, 
I'd send to you a marleil plaid ; 
'Twad houd your shouthcrs warm and br»« 
And douce at kirk or market shaw ; 
Fra' south as weel as north, my lad, 
V honest Scotchmen loe the maud." 

I MIND it weel in early dath, 

When I was beardless, young, ana bU^ 

And first could thresh the barn; 
Or hand a yokin' at the i)leugh; 
And tho' forfoughteii sair eneugh, 

Yet unco proud to learn : 
When first amang the yellow cora 

A man I reckon'd was. 
And wi' the lave ilk merry morii 
Could rank my rig and lass. 
Still shearing and clearing. 

The tither stooked raw, 
Wi' claivers, and haivei'S, 
■ Wearing the day awa*. 



A»4i ISlEys's POETICMi. WOEKS, 

E'en then, a wish, I mind its pow'r— 
A wish that to my latect hour 

Shall strongly heave my breast — 
That I, for poor auld Scotland's sake, 
Some usofu' plan or beuk could make 

Or sing a sang at least. 
The rough burr-thissle, spreading wide 

Amang the bearded bear, 
I turn'd the wceder-dips aside, 
And spar'd the sjanbol dear : 
No nation, no station. 

My envy e'er could raise, 
A Scot stiil, but blot still, 
I knew nae higher praise. 

But still the elements o' sang 

In formless jumble, right and wrang; 

Wild floated in my brain ; 
Till on that hur'st I said before, 
My partner in the merry core,_ 

She roused the forming strain : 
I see her yet, the sonsie quean, 

Tli^t lighted up her jingle. 
Her witching smile, her pauky een. 
That gart my heart-strings tingkf 
I fired, inspired, 

At every kindling keek, 
But bashing and dashing 
I feared aye to speak. 

Health to the sex, ilk guid chiel saya, 

Wi' merry dance in winter days, 

And we to share in common : 

The gust o' joy, the balm of woe. 

The saul o' hfe, the heaven below, 

Is rapture-giving woman. 
Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name 

Be mindfu' o' your mither : 
She, honest woman, may think shame 
That ye're connected with her. 
Ye're wae men, ye're nae men 
That slight the lovely dears; 
To shame ye, disclaim ye, 
Ilk honest birkic swears. 

For you, no bred to barn and bjTe, 
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyr&j 

Thanks to you for your line : 
The marled plaid ye kindly spare. 
By me should gratefully be ware ; 

''Twad please me to the nine. 



PROLOGUE. 269 



I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap, 

Douce hiugin' owre my curple, 
Than ony ermine ever lap, 
Or proud imperial purple. 
Fareweel then, lang heal then. 

And plenty be your fa', 
May losses and crosses 
Ne'er at your hallan ca*. 



WRITTEN UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF PERGUSSON, THE 
POET, IN A COPY OP THAT AUTHOR'S WORKS PRE- 
SENTED TO A YOUNG LADY IN EDINBURGH, MARCH 
19, 1787. 

Curse on ungrateful man that can be pleas'd, 
And yet can starve the author of the pleasure I 
Oh thou, my elder brother in misfortune, 
By far my eluer brother in the muses. 
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate. 
Why is the bard unpitied by the world, 
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures ? 



Siisrriptinn 



ON THE HEADSTONE OF FERGUSSON. 

Here lies 
Robert Fergusson, Poet, 
Born, Sept. 5, 1751. 
Died, Oct. 15, 1774. 

No sculptured marble here, no pompous lay, 
" No storied urn nor animated bust ; " 

This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust. 



^rnlnguB, 



SPOKEN BY MR. WOODS ON HIS BENEFIT NIOHV* 

Monday, 16th April, 1787. 

When by a generous public's kind acclaim, 
That dearest meed is granted — honest fame- 
When here your favour is the actor's lot. 
Nor even the man in private life forgot ; 



2^ BUKNS'S POETICAL WOBKS. 

What breast so dead to heavn'ly Virtue's glo"W, 
But heaves impassiou'd vvitli Vho grateful throe. 

Poor is the task to please a barb'rous throng, 
It needs no Siddons' powers in Southern's song 
But here an ancient nation fam'd afar, 
For genius, learnhig high, as great in war- 
Hail, Caledonia, name for ever dear ! 
Before whose sons I'm honour'd to appear ! 
Where every science — every nobler art — 
That can inform the mind, or mend the heart, 
Is known ; as grateful nations oft have found. 
Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound. 
Philosophy, no idle pedant dream 
Here holds her search by heaven-tanght Reason's 
Hert; /listory paints, with oleganoo and force, 
Tbp tide of Empire's fluctuating course ; 
Ktre Douglas forms wild Shakespeare into plan 
And Harle3' rouses all the god in man, 
When well-form'd taste and spaa'kliug wit nnito 
With manly lore, or female beauty bright, 
(Beauty, where faultless symmetv« and grace, 
Can only charm us in the second place), 
Witness my heart, how oft witli panting fear 
As on this night, I've met these judges here ! 
But still the hope Experience taught to live, 
Equal to judge — you're candid to forgive. 
No hundred-heflded Riot here we meet, • 
With decency and law beneath his feet ; 
Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom's name, 
Like Caledonians, you applaud or blame. 

Oh thou dread Pow'r, whose empire-giving baud 
Has oft been stretch'd to shield the honour'd land I 
Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire! 
May every son be worthy of his sire ! 
Firm may she rise with generous disdain 
At Tyranny's, or direr Pleasure's chain ! 
Still self-dependent in her native shore, 
Bold may she brave grim Danger's loudest roar, 
I'ill fate the curtain drop on worlds to be no mora; 



f jiislk In Wlllim Crmjr, 

iCLD chuckle Reekie's sair distrest, 
/)own droops her ance weel-burnish'd cre8t| 
Naejoy her bonnie buskit nest, 

Can yield awa, 
Her darling bird that she lo'es best, 

WiUie's awa ! 



EPISTLE TO AVILLl.-M CRE3CH, 

Oh Willie was a witty wight, 
And had o' things an unco slight, 
Auld lleekie aye he keepit tight, 

And trig and braw; 
But now they'll buslc her like a <ri^ht— 

Willie's awa! 

The stiffest o' thorn a' he bow'd ; 
The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd ; 
They durst nae niair than he allow'd, 

That was a law : 
We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd— 

Willie's awa! 

Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and fools, 
Frae colleges and boai-ding-schools, 
May sprout like simmer puddock-stools 

In glfn or shaw ; 
He wha could brush thom down to moola, 

Willie's awa! 

The brethren o' the Commerco-Chaumer 
May mourn their loss wi' doleful clamour; 
He was a dictionar and grammar 

Among them a' : 
I fear they'll now mak mony a stammer, 

Willie's awa ! 

Nae mair we see his levee door 
Philosophers and poets pour, 
And toothy critics' by the score, 

In bloody raw! 
The adjutant o' a' the core, 

Willie's awa ! 

Now worthy Gregory's Latin face, 
Tyler's and Greenfield's modest grace; 
Mackenzie, Stewart, sic a brace 

As Eome ne'er saw ; 
They a' mauu meet some ither place, 

Willie's awa ! 

Poor Burns — e'en Scotch drink canna quickw 
He cheeps like some bewilder'd chicken, 
Scar'd frae his minnie and the cleckin 

By hoodie-craw ! 
Grief's gien his heart an unco kickin'— 

Willie's awa ! 

Now ev'ry sour-mou'd girnin' blellum. 
And Calvin's folk are fit to fell him ; 
And self-conceited critic skellum 

His quill may draw ; 
He wha could brawlie ward their bellum, 

Willie's awa ! 



2U 



^6 BURNS'S POETICAIi WORKS. 

Ip wimpling stately Tweed I've sped, 
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, 
And Ettrick banks now roaring red, 

While tempests blaw; 
But e?ery joy and pleasure's fled — 

Willie's awa ! 

May I be slander's common speech ; 
A text for infamy to preach. ; 
And. lastly, streekit out to bleach 

In winter snaw ; 
Wben I forget thee, Willie Creech, 

The' far awa ! 

May never wicked fortune touzzle him ! 
May never wicked men bamboozle him ! 
Until a pow as auld's Methusalem 

He canty claw ! 
Then to the blessed New Jerusalem, 

Fleet wing awa ! 



(!Dii tire ijullj nf lit Smm Mu\n %\m. 

The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare. 
Dim, cloudy, sank beneath the western wave, 

Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the dark'ning air, 
And hollow whistl'd in the rocky cave. 

Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell, 

Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train, 

Or mus'd where limpid streams once hallow'd well, 
Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane. 

Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling rocks. 
The clouds, swift-wing'd, flew o'er the starry eky, 

The groaning trees untimely shed their locks, 
And shooting meteors caught the startled eye. 

The paly moon rose in the livid east, 

■ And 'mong the clifis disclos'd a stately form, 
In weeds of woe, that frantic beat her breast, 
And mix'd her wailings with the raging storm. 

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 
'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I vieVd : 

Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe, 
The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. 

Reversed that spear, redoubtable in war ; 

Eeclin'd that banner, erst in fields unfarl'd, 
That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar, 

And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world. 



ON SCARING SOME WATKR-FOWL IN LOCU-TUUIT. M) 

" My patriot son fills an unlinidv grave ! " 
With accontsi wild and lifiod arms, she cried, 

** Low lies the hand that oM was strctch'd to sare, 
Low lies the heart that swL'llcd with honest pride I 

A weeping country joins a widow's tear ; 

The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry ; 
The drooping arts surround their patron's bier ; 

And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh. 

I saw my sons resume their ancient fire ; 

I saw fair freedom's blossoms richly blow; 
But ah ! how hope is born but to expire ! 

Relentless fate has laid their guardian low. 

My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, 

While empty greatness .-aves a worthless name ? 

No ; every mus- shall join her tuneful tongue, 
And future ages hear his growing fame. 

And I will join a mother's tender cares, 

Through future times to make his virtue last; 

That distant years may boast of other Jlairs! " 
She said, and vanish'd with the sweeplnjr blast. 



A wild scene amo7ig the Eills of Ochtertyre. 

Why, ye tenants of the lake, 
For me your wat'ry haunt forsake ? 
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why 
At my pret^ence thus you fly ?' 
Why disturb your social joys, 
Parent, filial, kindred ties ? 
Common friend to you and me, 
Natun.-'f. gifcs to all are free : 
Peaceful keep your dimpling waY«^ 
Bus}' feed, or wanton lave; 
Or beneath the shelt'ring rock. 
Bide the surging billows' shock. 

Conscious, blushing for our race. 
Soon, too soon, your fsars I trace, 
Man, your proud usurping foe, 
Would be lord of all below : 
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride 
Tyrant stern to all beside. 
The eagle from yon cliffy brow. 
Marking you his prey below, 
In his breast no pity dwells, 
Strong necessity compels ; 
But man, to whom alone is giv*n, 
A ray. direct from pitying Heaven, 

17 . xt 



%Sid BUUNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

Glories in his heart humane — 
And creatures for his pleasure slain. 
In these savage, liquid plains, 
Only known to waud'ring swains, 
Where the mossy riv'let strays, 
Far from human haunts and ways ; 
All on Nature you depend, 
And life's poor season peaceful spend. 

Or, if man's superior might 
Dare invade your native right. 
On the lofty aether borne, 
Man with all his powers you scorn ; 
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings, 
Other lakes and other springs, 
And the f >c' you cannot brave, 
Scorn, at least, to be his slave. 



TO THE NOBLE DUKE OP ATIIOLE. 

My Lord, I know your noble ear 

Wo? ne'er assails in vain ; 
Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear 

Your humble slave complain, 
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams, 

In flaming summer pride, 
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams, 

And drink my crystal tide. 

The lightly-jumpin', glowrin' trouts, 

That thro' my waters play, 
If, in their random, wanton spouts, 

They near the margin stray ; 
If, hapless chance ! they linger lang, 

I'm scorching up so shallow. 
They're left the whitening stanes amang» 

In gasping death to wallow. 

Last day I grat wi' spite and teen, 

As poet Earns came by, 
That to a bard I should be seen 

Wi' half my channel dry : 
A panegyric rhyme, I ween, 

Even as I was he shor'd me ; 
But had I in my glory been. 

He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. 

Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks, 

In twisting strength I rin ; 
There, high my boiling torrent smokes, 

Wild roaring o'er a linn : 



«HE HUMBLE PETITION OP BRUAR wATER. it^ 

Enjoying large each spring and well, 

As nature gave them me, 
I am, although I say't mysel', 

Worth gauu a mile to see. 

Would then my noble master please 

To grant my highest wishes, 
He'll shade my banks wi* tow' ring trees 

And bonnie spreading bushes. 
Delighted doubly then, my Lord, 

You'll wander on my banks, 
And listen mony a grateful bird 

Return you tuneful thanks. 

The sober lav'rock, warbling wild, 

Shall to the skies aspire ; 
The gowdspink, music's gayest child. 

Shall sweetly join the choir. 
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, 

The mavis mild and mellow; 
The robin pensive autumn cheer. 

In all her locks of yellow. 

This, too, a covert shall insure 

To shield them from the storm. 
And coward maukin sleep secure, 

Low in her grassy form : 
Here shall the shepherd make his seat, 

To weave his crown of llow'rs: 
Or find a shelt'ring safe retreat 

From prone descending show'rs. 

And here, by sweet endearing stealth. 

Shall meet the loviug pair, 
Despising worlds with all their wealth 

As empty idle care. 
The flow'rs shall vie in all their charmi 

The hour of heav'n to grace, 
And birks extend their fragrant arms 

To screen the dear embrace. 

Here, haply too, at vernal dairn, 

Some musing bard may stray. 
And eye the smoking dewy lawn. 

And misty mountain gray : 
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam. 

Mild-chequering thro' the trees, 
Eave to my darkly-dashing stream. 

Hoarse swelling on the breeze. 

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool, 

My lowly banks o'erspread, 
And view, deep-bending in the pooi^ 

Their shadows' wat'ry bed ! 



9^ BUKNS'S POETICAL W0RK.8. 

Let fragrant birk^ in woodbines dreat. 

My cragg}' cliffs adorn ; 
And, for the little song-ter's nest, 

The close embow'riug thorn. 

So may old Scotia's darling hope, 

Tour little an^rel baud, 
Spring, lilie their fathers, up to prop 

Their hunour'd native land! 
So may, thro' Albion's f irthest ken, 

To social flowing glasses, 
The grace be — " Athole's honest men, 

And Athole's bonnie lasses 1 " 



€\)t Immll 



WRITTEN ON A MAKBLE SIDEBOARD, IN THE HERMITAQB 
BELONGING TO THE DUKE OP ATHOLE, IN THE WOOD 
OP ABERFELDY. 

"Whoe'er thou art those lines now reading, 
Think not, tho* from the world receding, 
I joy my lonely days to lead in 

This desert drear : 
That fell remorse, a conscience bleeding, 

Hath led me here. 

No thought of guilt my bosom sours; 
Free-wiU'd I fled from courtly bowers ; 
For well I saw in halls and towers 

That lust and pride, 
The arch-fiend's, dearest, darkest powers, 

In .state preside. 

I sav macddnd with vice incrusted ; 
I saw that honour's sword was rusted; 
That few for aught but filly lu^ted ; 
That he was still deceiv'd who trusted 

To love or friend : 
And hither came, wnth men disgusted, 

My life to end. 

In this lone cave,' in garments lowly 

Alike a foe to noisy folly, 

And brow-bent, g.oomy melancholy, 

I wear nwuy 
My hfe, a.nd in my office holy 

Consume the day. 

This rock my shield, when storms are blowing 
The limpid siroamiet, yonder liowmg-, 



291 



Supplying drink, the earth bestowing 

My .simple food; 
But few enjoy tlic cahu I know iu 

Tliis desert wood. 

Content and comfort bloss me more in 

This grot, than e'er I felt before in 

A i^alace — and with thoughts still soaring 

To God on high, 
Each night and morn, with voice imploring, 

Thiri wish I sigh. 

" Let me, oh Lord ! from life retire. 
Unknown each guilt}', worldly fire, 
Remorse's throb, or loose desire ; 

And when I die, 
Let me in this belief expire — 

To God I iiy." 

Stranger, if full of youth and not, 
And yet no grief has marr'd thy quiet 
Thou haply throw'st a scornful ej-e at 

The hermit's prayer — 
But if thou hast good cause to sigh at 

Thy fault or care — 

If thou hast known false love's vexation. 
Or hast been exil'd from thy nation, 
Or guilt affrights thy contemplation. 

And makes thee pine, 
Oh ! how must thou lament thj- station. 

And envy mine ! 



%mt5 

VraiXTEN WITH A PENCIL OVER THE CHIMNET-PIECB 

IN THE PAKLOUE OF THE INN AT KENMOEB, 

TATMOUTH. 

Admiring Nature, in her wildest grace, 
These uothern scones with weary feet I trace ; 
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, 
Th' abodes of covied grouse and timid sheep, 
My savage journey, curious, I pursue, 
Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view. 
The meeting clitTs each deep-sunk glen divides, 
The woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their ample sides 
Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the hills, 
The ey e with wonder und amazement fills ; 
The 'i'ay, meand'ring sweet in infant pride. 
The palace, rising on its vci-daut side ; 



BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

The lawns, wood-fring'd in Nature's native taste; 
The hillocks, dropt in Nature's careless haste ; 
The arches, striding o'er the nevv-l)orn stream ; 
The village ghttering in the noontide heam — 

* * * * 
Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, 

Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy ceU : 

The sweeping theatre of hanging w^oods ; 

The incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods— 

* * * * 
Here Poesy might wake her Heav'n-taught lyre, 
And look through nature with ci-eative tire ; 
Here, to the wrongs cf fate half reconcil'd; 
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wauder wild; 
And Disappointment, in tliese lonely bounds, 
Find balm to soothe her bitter, rankling wounds : 
Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward stretchher Kam 
And injm-'d Worth forget and pardon man. 

# « « «= 



Lone on the bleaky hills the straying flocks 
Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks; 
Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains, 
The gatiiering floods burst o'er the dista/it plains ; 
Beneath the blasts the Lafless forests groan; 
The hollow caves return a sullen moan. 



Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye 
Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling 
Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye, 
Sad to yom* sympathetic scenes I fly ; 
Where to the wliistling blast and waters' roar, 
Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore. 
Oh heavy loss, thy country ill could bear ! 
A loss these evil days can ne'er repair ! 
Justice the high vicegerent of her God, 
Her doubtful balance ey'd, and sway'd her rod ; 
Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow, 
She sank, abandon'd to the wildest woe. 
Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den, 
Now gay in hope explore the paths of men : 
See from his cavern grim Oppression rise, 
And throw on Poverty his cruel eyes ; 
Keen oo the helpless victim see him fly, 
And stihe, dark, the feebly -bursting cry. 

Ma k rufiiar Violence, disiamed with crimes, 
Rousmg elate Lr: Ihese degenerate times ; 
View unsuspecting Innocence a prey, 
A& guileful Fraud points out the eviing way » 



ON THE DKATll OF JOHN .\rLl".OU. ?')3 

Wliile subtile Litii:;atiou'.s pliant tongue 
The life-blood tHjual sucks of Hii.';ht and Wrong ; 
Ilark ! iujuv'd Want recounts the unlisten'd tale, 
And mucli-wrong'd Mis'ry pours her unpitied wail ! 

Ye dark, waste hills, and brown unsightly plains. 
To you I sing my grief-inspired strains ; 
The tempests, rage ! ye turbid torrents, roll ! 
Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul. 

Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign, 
Be nameless wilds and lonely wand'rings mine, 
To mourn the woes my country must endure, 
That wound degenerate ages cannot cure. 



VERSES 

WRITTEN •WHILE STANDING BY THE FALL OF FXER8, 
NEAR LOCU-NESS. 

Among the heathy hills and ragged woods. 

The foaming F^-ers pours his mossy floods. 

Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, 

Where, through a shapeless beach, his stream resounds. 

As high in air the bursting torrents flow. 

As deep-recoiling surges foam below, 

Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends, 

And viewless Echo's ear, astonish VI, rends. 

Dim seen, thro' rising mists and ceaseless show'rs, 
The hoary cavern, wide surrounding low'rs ; 
Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils. 
And still below the horiid cauldron boils — 



ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER 

HIE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, ESQ., 
brother to a Young Lady, a particular friend of the Authcfi, 

Sad thy tale, thou idle page. 

And rueful thy alarms — > 

Death tears the brother of her love ' 

From Isabella's arms. 

Sweetly deck'd with pearly dew, 

The morning rose may blow. 
But cold, successive noontide blasts 

May lay its beauties low. 



864 BUENS'S POETICAL W0KK8. 

Fair on Isabella's morn 
The sun propitious smil'd, 

But long 'ere noon succeeding clouds 
Succeeding hopes beguil'd. 

Fate oft tears the bosom cords 

That Nature finest strung ; 

So Isabella's heart was form'd, 

. And so that heart was wrung. 

Were it in the poet's power, 
Strong as he shares the grief, 

That pierces Isabella's heart, 
To give that heart rehef. 

Dread Omnipotence alone 

Can heal the wound He gave — 

Can point the brimful, grief-worn eyes 
To scenes beyond the grave. 

Virtue's blossoms there shaU blow 
And fear no with'ring blast ; 

There Isabella's spotless worth 
Shall happy be at last. 



Sheewb Willie Smellie to Crochallan came, 
The old cock'd hat, the grey surtout the same ; 
His bristling beard just rising in its might, 
'Twas four long nights and days to shaving night 
His uncomb'd grizzly locks, wild staring, thatch'd 
A head for thought profound and clear unmatch'd 
Yet though his caustic wit was biting, rude, 
His heart was warm, benevolent, and good. 



ADDEESS TO IMR Wil. TYTLER, 
With the present of 'the Ba^'cVs Picttire. 

Reverend defender of beauteous Stuart, 

Of Stuart, a name once ix^spected — ■ 
A name which to love was the mark of a true heart, 

But now 'tis despis'd and neglected. 

Though something like moisture conglobes in my ey% 

Let no one misdeem me disloj'al; 
A poor, friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh, 

Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. 

My fathead that name have rever'd on a throne j 

My fathers have fallen to right it ; 
Those fatners would spurn their degenerate son. 

That name should he scofhngly slight it. 



ON MISS CRUIKSHANKS. 

Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join, 
The Queen, and the rest of the gentry, 

Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine j 
Their title's avowed bj' my country. 

But why of that epocha make such a fuss, 

That gave us the Hanover stem ; 
If bringing them over was lucky for us, 

I'm sure 'twas as lucky for them. 

But loyalty, truce ! we're on dangerous ground. 
Who knows how the fashions may alter ? 

The doctrine to-day, that is loyaltj sound, 
To-morrow may In-ing us a haltei ! 

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, 

A trifle scarce wortliy your care ; 
But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard, 

Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. 

Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye, 

And ushers the long dreary night ; 
But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky. 

Your com'se to the latest is bright. 



1 ghtrlr. 



A LITTLE, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight, 
And still his precious self his dear delight : 
Who loves his own smart shadow in the street*, 
Better than e'er the fairest she he meets, 
A map of fasidon, too, he made his tour, 
Learn'd vive la hngatelle, et vive Vamour; 
So travelled monkies their grimace improve, 
Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies love. 
Much specious lore, but httle imderstood ; 
"Veneering oft outshines the solid wood : 
His solid sense — by inches you must tell, 
But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell ! 
His meddling vanity, a busy fiend 
Still making work his selfish craft must mend. 



f II Mm Criiiksjiaiite, 



A VEEY YOUNG LADY. 

WHITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAP OP A BOOK PEESENXID 
XO HEB BY THE AUTHOR. 

Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay, 
Blooming in thy carl}' ^May, 
Never may'st thou, lovely flow'r, 
Chilly shrink in sleety show'r j 



BUKNS S POETICAL WOEKS. 

Never Boreas' hoary path, 
Ne\'cr Eurus'" poisonous breath. 
Never baleful stellar lights, 
T.aiiit thee with untimely blights I 
Never, never reptile thief 
Riot on thy A'irgin leaf! 
Nor even Sol too fiercely view 
Thy bosom blushing still with dew ! 

May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem, 
Richly deck thy native stem : 
'Till some evt.'uing, sober, calm, 
Dropping dews and breathing balm, 
While all around the woodland rings. 
And every bird thy requiem sings ; 
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound. 
Shed thy dying honours round. 
And resign to parent earth 
The lovehest form she e'er gave birth. 



Ill (l^.Tlrni|iniT (Bffusinii, 

ON BEING AI'POINT^D TO THE EXCISE- 

BEAECniNG auld wives barrels, 

Och hon! the day ! 
That clarty barm should stain my laurels ; 

But what'U ye say ? 
These muvin' things ca'd wives and weans, 
Wad muve the very hearts o' stanes ! 



WITH A PRESENT OP A PAIB OF DKINKING- GLASRHfc 

Fair Empress of the Poet's soul, 

And Queen of Poetesses ! 
Clarinda, take this little boon, 

This humble pair of glasses. 

And fill them high with generous juice. 

As generous as your mind ; 
And pledge me in the generous toast— 

" The whole of human kind ! " 

" To those who love us ! " — second fill ; 

But not to those whom we love ; 
Let us love those who love not us ! — 

A third — " To thee and me, love ! " 



EPISTLE TO HUGH PARKER. 267 



ftn ClHrinitH, 



ON HIS LEAVING EDINBUEOH. 

CliARiNDA, mistress of iny soul, 
Tbe nu'asur'd time is run ! 

The wretch boneath the dreary pole 
So marks his latest sun. 

To what dark cave of frozen night 

Shall poor Sylvander hie ; 
Depriv'd of thee, Ids life and light, 

The sun of all his J03'. 

We pai't — but by these precious drop* 

That fill thy lovely eyes! 
No other lig-lit shall guide my steps 

Till thy bright beams arise. 

She, the fjiir sun of all her sex, 
Has t-iest my glorious day ! 

And siiali a glimmering planet fix 
My worship to its ray ? 



In this strange land, this uncouth clime, 

A land miknown to prose or rhyme; 

Where words ne'er crossed tbe muse's heckieif 

Nor limpet in poetic shackles ; 

A land that prose did never view it, 

Except when drunk be stacher't thro' it; 

Here ambush'd by the chimla cheek, 

Hid in an atmosphere of reek, 

I hear a wheel thrum i' the neuk, 

I hear it — for in vain I louk. 

The red peat gleams, a iiery kerenl, 

Enhusked by a fog infernal : 

Here for my wonted rh^-miiig raptures, 

I sit and count 7113' sins by chapters, 

For hfe and spunk like ither Christians, 

I'm dwindled down to mere existence ; 

Wi' nae converse but Gallowa' bodies. 

Wi' nae-kenu'd face but Jenny Geddes. 

Jenny, my Pegasean pride ! 

Dowie she saunters down Nithside, 

And aye a westlin heuk she throws, 

While tears hap o'er he auld brown nose 

Was it for t.his, wi' cannj' care, 

Thou bare the Bard thro' many a shire? 



268 BURNS'S PORTICAL WORKS. 

At liowes or hillocks never stumlilcd, 

And late or early never grumbled? 

Ob, had I power, like inclination, 

I'd heeze thee np a constellation, 

To canter with the Sagitarre, 

Or lonp the ecliptic like a bar ! 

Or turn the polo like anj^ arrow ; 

Or, when anld Phcebus bids good-moiTOW 

Down the zodiac urge the race, 

And cast dirt on his godship's face ; 

For I could laj' my bread and kail 

He'd ne'er cast salt upo' thy tail. 

Wi' a' this care and a' this grief. 

And sma', sma' prospect of relief, 

And nought but peat-reek i' my head, 

How can I write what ye can read? 

Tarbolton, twenty -fourth o' June, 

Ye'U find me in a better tune ; 

But till we meet and wcet our whistle, 

Tak this excuse for nae epistle. 

liOBEET BUENS. 



WRITTEN 



IN ERIAES' CAUSE HERMITAGE, ON THE BANKS 01 THl 
NITH. 

Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in rnsset weed. 
Be thou deckt in silken stole, 
Grave these maxims on thy soul. 

Life is but a day at most, 

Sprung from night ; in darkness lost; 

Day, how rapid in its flight — 

Day, how few must see the night ; 

Hope not sunshine every hour. 

Pear not clouds will always lower. 

Happiness is but a name. 

Make content and ease thy aim. 

Ambition is a- meteor gleam ; 

Fame, a restless idle dream : 

Pleasures, insects on the wing 

Round Peace, the tend'rest tlower of Spring, 

Those that sip the dew alone, 

Make the l)utteriiies thy own ; 

Those that would the bloom devour, 

Crush the locusts — save the flower. 

For the future be prepar'd, 

Guard wherever thou can'st guard ; 

But thy utmost duly done. 



ELKGT. 269 



Nydcoinc what thou can'st not sbun. 
Follies past siive thou to air, 
]Make their consoquencethj' care: 
Keep the name of man in niintl, 
And dishonour not tliy kind. 
Eevercnce with lowly heart, 
Him whose wondrous work thou art; 
Keep His goodness still in view, 
Thy trust — and thy example, too. 

Stranger, go; Heaven he thy guide! 
Quoth the Eeadsmau on Nithside. 

Thoit whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet weed, 
Be thou deckt in silken stele. 
Grave these counsels on thy soul. 

Life is but a day at most, ' 
Sprung from night, in darknoss lost ; 
Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour, 
Fear not clouds will always lower. 

As youth and love with sprightly danofl^ 

Beneath thy morning star advance, 

Pleasure with her siren air 

May delude the thoughtless pair; 

Let Prudence bless Enjoj-ment's cup, 

Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up, 

As the day grows warm and high, 

Life's meridian flaming nigh, 

Dost thou spurn the humble vale ? 

Life's proud sunnnits would'st thou scale ' 

Check thy climbing step ehtte. 

Evils lurk in felon wait : 

Dangers, Cftgle-pinion'd, bold. 

Soar around each chfFy hold, 

While cheerful peace,' with linnet sc*^.g, 

Chants the lowly dells among. 

As thy shades of ev'ning close, 

Beck'ning. thee to long repose. 

As life itself becomes disease. 

Seek the chimney-neuk of ease; 

There ruminate witli sober thought, 

On all thou'st seen, and heanl and wrouj^kt 

And teach the sportive j^ounkers round^ 

Saws of experience, sage and sound. 

Say, man's true, geauine estimate, 

The grand criterion of his fate. 

Is not — art thou high or low ? 

Die thy fortune ebb or ilow ? 

Wast thou cottager or king ? 

Peer or peasant ?— no such thing. 

tl9 



27!) BtJIlNS'S POICXICAL, AVOliK.8. 

Did many talents gild thy span ? 

Or frug:il UJiture grudge thee one ? 

Tell them, and press it on their uiivid, 

As thyself must shortly find, 

The smile or frown oi' aw tid Heaven 

To virtue or to vice is i^ivi-n. 

Say, to bejust, and l<ind, and wise, 

There sohd self-enjoyiuciit lu's ; 

That foolish, selHsli,' faithless ways 

Lead to the wretched, vile, and base. 

Thus resign'd and qniet, creep 

To the bed of Listing sleep ; 

Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, 

Night, wlier* dawn shall never break! 

Till future I'fe— future no more — 

To light an 1 joy the good restore, 

To light and joy miknown before. 

Stranger, go ; Heaven be thy guide ! 
Quoth the Beadsman on Nithside. 



EXTEMPORE TO CAPTAIN lUDDEL, 

OF GLENEIDDT.E, ON KKTURNING A NEWSPAPER. 

'Ellislcni-il, 3[ondai/ H veiling. 

Your new^s and reviev*-, Sn, I've read thro' and thro', Sii 

With little admiring or blaming ; 
The papers are barren of home- news or ibreign, 

No murders or rapes worth the naming. 

Our frieixAis, the reviewers, those chippers and hewers. 

Are judg:!S of moi-tar and stone, Sir, 
But oi '^leet or tmnicet, in aj}(hric comp^ete^ 

rU boldly pronounce tliey are none. Sir. 

My ^'.use-quill too rude is to tell all your goodness 

V'Cstow'd on your servant, the Poet; 
W aold to God I had one like a beam of the sun, 

And then all the world, Sir, should know it! 



A F.">J^aER'S LAMENT, 

fOR THL DEATH OV HER SON. 

Fate gave the wrrd, the arrow sped. 
And pierc'd my darling's heart ! 

And with him a'l the joys are lied 
Life can to me impart. 

Bj cruel hands the sapling 'kops. 

In dust dishonour'd r id : 
6c fsll the pride of a'l n.y bopes. 



271 



The mother linnet in the hraivc 
Bewails her ravishM young; 

So I, for my lost darling's sake, 
Lament the live-day long. 

Death ! oft I've fear'd thy fatal hlo«v, 
Now, fond I bare my breast, 

Oh, do thou kindly lay nie low 
With him 1 love, at rest ! 



On the Year 1788. 

Foe lords r kings I dinna mourn, 
E'en let them die — for that tliey're bora *• 
But oh, prodigious to retlec' ! 
A towmont, Sirs, is gaue to va-eck ! 
Oh, Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space 
What dire e^'ents ha'e taken place ! 
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft xw ; 
In what a pickle thou hast left us I 

The Spanish empire's tint a head, 
And my old teethless Bawtie's dead ; 
The tulzie's sair 'tween Pitt and Fox, 
And our guidv/ife's wee birdie cocks ; 
The tane is game, a bluidie devil. 
But to the hen-birds unco civil : 
The tither's something dear o' treadin'. 
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden. 
Ye ministers, come mount the pu'pit, 
And cry till ye be hoarse or roupit. 
For Eighty-eight lie wish'd you weel, 
And gied you a' baith gear and meal j 
E'en mony a plack, and mony a peck, 
Y'^e ken yo-irsels, for little feck ! 

Up bdunie lasses, dj.ght ycur e'en. 
For some o' you ha'e tint a frien' | 
In Eighty-eight, ye keii, was ta'ei... 
What ye'll ne'er ha'e to gie again. 
Observe the very nowte and sheep. 
How dowf and dowie now they creep ; 
Nay, even the jarth itsel' does cry, 
For Embro' welLs are gotten dry. 

Oh, Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn, 

And no ov/Tc auld, I hope, to learn I 

Thou beardless boy, I pray tak' care^ 

Thou now hast got tliy daddy's chair, 

Nae hand-cuflT'd, muzzl'd, liap-shackl'd Regen^ 



272 BUl^^ss pokxical worx*. 

But like himscl', a full, free agent, 
Be sure ye follow out the plan 
Nae waur than he did, honest man ! 
As muckle better as ye can. 



iBxm in i\)t Unil}-^:)^. 

My curse upon thj'- venom'd stang, 
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang, 
And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang, 

Wi' knawing vengeance ; 
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, 
Like racking engines ! 

When fevers burn, or ague freezes, 
Eheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes ; 
Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us, 

Wi' pitying moan ; 
Bu<- thee — thou hell o' a' diseases, 

Aye mocks our groan ! 

idown my beard the slavers trickle ; 
[ kick the wee stools o'er the mickle, 
.\.s round the lire the giglets keckle, 

To see me loup ; 
While, raving mad, I wish a iieckle 

Were in their doup. 

0' a' the num'rous human dools, 

111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, 

Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools. 

Sad sight to see ! 
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools— 

Thou bear'st the gree. 

Where'er that place be priests ca'd hell. 
Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell. 
And I'anked plagues their numbers tell, 

In dreadfu' raw. 
Thou, Toot'a^che, surely bear'st the bell 

jhi-iiiang them a' ! 

Oh, thou grim mischief-making chiel, 
That gai-s the notes of discord squeel, 
Till daft mankind aft dance a reel 

In gore a shoe-thick !— 
Gis a* the faes o' Scotland's weal 

A towmond's Toolhachei 



lETTER TO JAllES TENNANT. 273 

ODE, 

BACKED TO THE MEMORY 01? MRS. OSWALD. 

Dweller in you dunji^eoii dark, 
Hangman of creation, mark ! 
Wlio in widow-weeds appears, 
Laden with uidionour'd years, 
Noosing with care a bursting purse, 
Baited with many a deadly curse ! 

STROPHE. 

View the wither'd beldam's face — 

Can thy keen inspection trace 

Aught of humanity's sweet melting grace ? 

Note that eyo, 'tis rheum o'erflows, 

Pity's flood there never rose. 

See these hands, ne'er stretch'd to sav&, 

Hands that took— but never gave. 

Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, 

I'O ! there she goes, unpitied and unblest 

Jhe goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest. 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, 

(Awhile forbear, ye tort'ring fiends ;) 

Seest thou whose step, unwilling, hither bends, 

No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies : 

'Tis thy trusty, quondam mate, 

Doom'd to share thy fiery fate, 

She, tardy, hell-ward plies. 



And are they of no more avail, 

Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a-year ? 

In other words, can Mammon fail, 

Omnipotent as he is here ? 

Oh, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier, 

Wliile down the wretched vital part is drir'n ! 

The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear. 

Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heav'n. 



OF GIENCONNER. 

AuLD comrade dear, and brither sinner, 
How's a' the folk about Glenconner ? 
How do you this blae, eastlin wind, 
That's like to l)law a body blind P 
For me, my faculties are frozen. 
And ilka member nearly dozen'd. 

18 



274 



JBUEXS S POETICAL ^TOEKS. 



I've sent yon Iiere. bj' Johnny 

Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on :— 

Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling, 

And Reid, to common sense appealing:. 

Philosophers have fought and wrangled, 

And meikle Greek and Latin mangled, 

Till wi' their logic-jargon tir'd, 

And in the depth of science mir'd, 

To common sense they Jiow appeal, 

What wives and \vahsters see and feci. 

But, hark ye, friend, I charge j'ou strictly, 

Peruse them, and return tliem quickly, 

For now I'm grown sae cursed douce, 

I pray and ponder butt the house ; 

My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin'. 

Perusing Bunyan, Brown, and Boston ; 

Till by-Cnd-bye, if I baud on, 

I'll grunt a blouset gospel groan : 

Alread}' I begin to try it, 

To cast my cen up like a pyet. 

When by the gun she tumbles o'er, 

Flutt'riug and gasping in her gore: 

Sae shortly you shall see me bright, 

A burning and a shining light. 

My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen, 

The ace and wale o' honest men : 

Wlien bending down wi' auld grey hairs, 

Beneath the load of years and cares, 

May He who made him still support him, 

And views beyond the grave comfort hina. 

His worthy fam'ly, fur and near 

God bless them a' wi' grace and gear ; 

My auld schoolfellow, preacher Willie, 

The manly tar, my mason Billie, 

And Auchenbay, I wish him joy ; 

If he's parent, lass or boy, 

May he be dad, and Meg the mither, 

Just five-and-forty years thegither! 

And no forgetting wabster Charlie, 

I'm tcld he oifers very fairly. 

And, Lord remember singing Sannock, 

Wi' hale brceks, sexpence, and a bannock ; 

And next my auld acquaintance, Nancy, 

Since she is fitted to her fancy ; 

And her kind stars hae airted till her 

A good chiel wi' a pickle siller. 

My kindest, best jespects I sen' it, 

To cousin Kate and sister Janet ; 

Tell them, frae me, wi' chiels be cautious. 

For, faith, they'll aiblins fin' them fashions. 

And lastly, Jamie, for yoursel, 

May guardian angels tak a spell, » 

And steer j-ou seven miles south o' lieil* 



FKAGJl ENT. 27^ 



But first, before ^'ou see Heaven's glorj', 
JMay yo get iiiony a ineiTy story, 
Mony a laugh and niony a drink, 
And aye enoiigli o' needfu' clink. 

Now fare ye wecl, and joy be \vi' you, 
For my sake this 1 beg it o' you, 
Assist poor ISimson a' ye can, 
Ye'U till' him just an honest mau: 
Sae I conclude, and quat my chanter, 
Your's, saint or sinner, 

KOB THE RaNTEE. 



£ Iragiiiriit, 



INSCRIBED TO THE RIGUT HON. C. J. FOX. 

How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite ; 
How virtue and vice blend their black and their white; 
How genius, th' illustrious father of fiction, 
Confounds ride and law, reconciles contradiction — 
I sing : if these mortals, the critics, should bustle, 
I care not, not 1 — let the critics go whistle ! 

But now for a yiatron, whose name and whose glory 
At once ma}- illustrate and honour my story. 

Thou nrst of our orators, first of our wits ; 

Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere lucky hit« ; 

With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong, 

No man with the half of 'em e'er went far wrong; 

With passions so potent, and fancies so bright. 

No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite riglit ; — 

A sorry, poor misbegot sou of the muses. 

For using thy name otters fifty excuses. 

Good L — d, what is man ? for as simple he looks, 
Do but try to develope his hooks and his crooks, 
With his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil, 
All in all he's a problem must puzzle the devil. 

On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely labours. 

That, like th' Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its neighbour* 

Mankind are his show-box — a friend, would you knowhiui ? 

Pull the string, ruling passion the picture will show him. 

Wliat pity, in rearing so beauteous a system, 

One trifling particular, truth, should have miss'd hira, 

For, spite of his fine theoretic positions, 

ilaukind is a science defies definitions. 

Some sort all our qualities, each to its tribe. 

And think human nature they truly describe ; 

Have you found this or t'other? there's more in the wind, 

As by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll find. 

But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan, 

In the make of the wonderful creature call'd man, 



BUKNS'S rOElICAL WOKKS. 

No two virtues, whatever relation they claim, 
Nor even two ditt'erent shades of the same, 
Though like as was ever twin brother to brother, 
Possesshig the one shall imply you've the other. 



(^n Irriiig k WmniM Tim 

LIMP BY ME, "WHICH A PELLOW HAD JUST SHOT. 

Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, 

And blasted l)e thy murder-aiming eye; 

May never pit\- soothe thee with a sigh, 
Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart. 

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field ! 

The bitter little that of life remains ; 

No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains 
To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest ; 

No more of rest, but now thy dying bed ; 

The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head. 
The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. 

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait 
The sober eve,"or hail the cheerful dawn ; 
I'U miss thee sporting o'ei' the dewy lawn, 

And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate. 



^jii^ Hirk's ilnriii. 

A SATIKE. 

Orthodox, oiihodox, 
Wha believe in John Knox, 

Let me sound an alarm to your conscience j 
There's a heretic blast 
Has been blawn in the wast, 

Thai what is no sense must be nonsense. 

Dr. Mac, Dr. Mac, 

You should stretch on a rack. 
To strike evil doers wi' terror ; 

To join faith and sense 

Upon ony pretence, 
Is heretic, damnable error. 

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, 
It was mad, I declare, 
To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing; 



THE KIRK'S ALAE3kI. 277 



Provost Jolui is slill deaf 
To the church's relief, 
And crater Bob is its ruin. ' 

D lymple mild, D'rymple mild, 
Tho' your heart's Hke a cliild, 

And your ht'e like the uew-di'iven snaw, 
Yet that wiuua save j'e, 
Auld Satan must have ye, 

For preaching that three's ane and twa. 

Rumble John, Rumble John, 
Mount the steps \vi' a groan, 

Cry the book is \vi' heresy cramm'd; 
Then lug out your ladle. 
Deal brimstone like adle. 

And roar every note of the damn'd. 

Simper James, Simper James, 
^ Leave the fair Killie dames, 

There's a hoher chase in your view; 
I'll lay on your head. 
That the pack ye'll soon lead. 

For puppies like you there's but few. 

Signet Sawney, Signet Sawney, 
Are 3'e huirding the penny, 
Unconscious what evil await ; 
Wi' a jump, yell, and howl. 
Alarm every soul, 
I'or the foul thief is just at your gate. 

Daddy Auld, Daddy Auld, 
There's a tod in the fauld, 

A tod meikle waur thau the clerk : 
Though ye do na skaith, 
Ye'll be in at the death, 

And if ye canna bite ye may bark. 

Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster, 
If for a saint yc do miister, 

The corps is uo nice of recruits ; 
Yet to worth let's be just, 
Royal blood ye might boast, 

If the ass was the king of the brutea, 

Jamy Goose, Jamy Goose, 
Ye ha'e made but toom roose. 

In hunting the wicked lieutenant; 
But the doctor's your mark, 
For the L— d's haly ark : 

He has cooper'd and cawt a wrong' pm iu*t 

Poet Willie, Poet Willie, 

Gie the Doctor a volley, 

Wi' your Liberty's Chain and your wit; 



BURNS S POETICAIi W0BK8, 

O'er Pegusus' side 
Ye ne'er laid a stride, 
Ye but smelt, man, the place where he * * 

Andro Gouk, Andro Gouk, 

Ye may slander the hook, 
And the hook not the waur, let me tell ye ; 

Ye are rich and look hig, 

But lay by hat and wig. 
And ye'll ha'e a calf's head o' sma' value. 

Barr Steenie, Barr Steenie, 

What mean ye, what mean ye ? 
If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, 

Ye may ha'e some pretence 

To bavins and sense, 
Wi' people wha ken ye no better. 

Irvine side, Irvine side, 

Wi' your turkey-cock pride, 
Of manhood but sma' is your share ; 

Ye've the ligure, 'tis true, 

Ev'u j'our faes will allow. 
And your friends they dare grant ye nae inaiow 

Muirland Jock, Muirland Jock, 

When the Lord makes a rock 
To crush Common Sense for her sins, 

If ill manners were wit, 

There's no mortal so fit 
To confound the poor Doctor at ance. 

Holy Will, Holy Will, 

There was wit i' your skull, 
When ye pilfer'd the alms of the poor ; 

The timmer is scant. 

When ye're ta'en for a saunt, 
Wha should swing in a rape for an hour. 

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, 

Seize your spir'tual guns, 
Ammuuition you never can need; 

Your hearts are the stuff, 

Will be powther enough. 
And your skulls are storehouses o' lead. 

Poet Burns, Poet Burns, 

Wi' your priest-skelping turns. 
Why desert ye your auld native shire ? 

Your muse is a gipsie : 

E'en though she were tipsie, 
She could ca' us nae waur than we are. 



XO DE. BLACKLOCK. 279 

Sn Sr. llarklnrl;, 

IN ANSWER TO A LETTER. 

EUisland, 21st Oct. 1789. 

"Wow, but j'our letter made rae vauntie ! 
And are ye hale, and wecl, and cantie ? 
I kenn'dit still j'our wee bit j auntie, 

Wad bring ye to : 
Lord send you aye as weel's I want ye, 

And then ye'll do. 

The ill-thief blaw the Heron south ! 
And never drink be near his drouth ! 
He tauld mj-sel by word o' mouth, 

He'd tak my letter ; 
I lippen'd to the chield in trouth. 

And bade nae better. 

But aiblins honest Master Heron 
Had at the time some dainty fair one 
To ware his theologic care on, 

And holj' stud}' ; 
And tir'd o' sauls to waste his lear on, 

E'en tried the body. 

But what d'j'e think, my trusty fier, 
I'm turii'd a gauger — Peace be here ! 
Parnassian queans, I fear, I fear, 

Yell now disdain me ! 
And then my fifty pounds a-year 

Will little gain me. 

Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, 
Wha, hy Castalia's wimplin' streamies, 
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbics. 

Ye ken, ye ken. 
That Strang necessity supreme is 

'Mang sons o' men. 

I hae a \nfe and twa wee laddies, 

They maun haebrose and brats o' duddies; 

Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is— 

I need na vaunt, 
But I'll sned besoms — thraw saugli woodie* 

Before they want. 

Lord help me thro' this warld o' care ! 
I'm weary sick o't late and air ! 
Not but I hao a richer share 

Than mony ithers ; 
But why should ae man better fare. 

And a' men brithers ? 



BUESra S POETICAL -WORKS. 



Come, firm Resolve, take thou the van, 
Thou stalk o' carl hemp in man ! 
And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan 

A lady fair : 
Wha does the utmost that he can, 

WiU whyles do mair. 

But to conclude my silly rhyme, 
(I'm scant o' verse and scant o' time,) 
To make a happy fire-side clime 

To weans and wife. 
That's the true pathos and suhlime 

Of human life. 

My compliments to sister Beckie ; 
And'^eke the same to honest Lucky, 
I wat she is a dainty chuckle, 

As e'er trod clay ! 
And gratefully, my guid auld cockie, 

I'm yom-s for aye. 

Robert BuEira, 



Fair the face of orient day, 
Fair the tints of op'ning rose ; 

But fairer still my Deha dawns, 
More lovely far her beauty shows. 

Sweet the lark's wild warbled lay, 
Sweet the tinkhng rill to hear j 

But, Delia, more delightful still. 
Steal thine accents on mv ear. 

The flower-enamoured busy bee, 
The rosy banquet loves to sip ; 

Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse 
To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip. 

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips 
Let me, no vagrant insect, rove ; 

Oh, let me steal one hquid kiss, _ 
For, oh ! my soul is parched with love* 



SKETCH— NEW YEAR'S DAY. 

TO MRS. DrNLOP. 

This day, Time winds th' exhausted chain. 
To run the twelvemonth's length again : 



BKETCn — NEW YEAll's PAX. 281 

I see the old, bald-pated fellow, 

With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, 

Adjust the unimpair'd machine, 

To wheel the equal, full routine. 

The absent lover, minor heir. 

In vnin assail him witli their prayer; 

Deaf as my friend, he sees them press, 

Nor makes the hour one moment less. 

Will you (the ^Major's with the hounds, 

The happy tenants share his rounds; 

Coila's fare Rachel's care to-day, 

And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray) 

From housewife cares a minute borrow — 

— That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow. 

And join with me a, moralizing: 

This day's propitious to be wise in. 

First, what did yesternight deliver ? 

" Another year is gone for ever." 

And what is this day's strong suggestion ? 

" The passing moment's all we rest on ! " 

Rest on — for what ? What do we here ? 

Or why regard the passing year ? 

Will Time, amus'd with proverb'd lore, 

Add to our date one minute more ? 

A few days may — a few years must — 

Repose us in the silent dust. 

Then is it wise to damp our bliss ? 

Yes — all such reasonings are amiss ! 

The voice of Nature loudly cries, 

And many a message from the skies, 

That something in us never dies : 

That on this frail, uncertain state. 

Hang matters of eternal weight : 

That future hfe in worlds unknown 

Must take its hue ft'om this alone ; 

Whether as heavenly glorj' bright, 

Or dark as misery's woeful night. 

Since, then, my honour'd, first of friends, 

On this poor being all depends. 

Let us th' important now employ 

And live as those who never die ; 

Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd 

Witness that filial circle round, 

(A sight Hfe's sorrows to repulse, 

A sight pale envy to convulse,) 

Others now claim youi* chief regard ; 

Yourself, you wait yom- bright reward. 



z3 



BUKKS S P0K1IC4L WOKiiS. 



frnlugnf. 



BFOKEN AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES, OS NBW-YBAE t 
DAY EVENING. 

No song nor dance I bring from yon great city, 
That queens it o'er our taste — the more's the pity ; 
Tho', by-the-bye, abroad why will you roam ? 
Good sense and taste are natives here at home : 

But not for pancgjric I appear, 

I come to wish you all a good new year ! 

Old Father Time deputes me here before ye. 

Not for to preach, but tell his simple story : 

The sage, grave ancient cough'd, and bade me say, 

" You're one year older this important day." 

If wiser too — he hinted some suggestion. 

But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the question ; 

And with a would-be roguish leer and wink, 

He bade me on you press this one word — " think ! " 

Ye sprightly youths, quite flush'd with hope and spii'it 

Who think to storm the world by dint of merit, 

To you the dotard has a deal to sa}^. 

In his dry, sly, sententious, proverb way ; 

He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle, 

That the first blow is ever half tlie battle ; 

That tho' some b^^ the skirt may try to snatch him, 

Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him. 

That, whether doing, suffering, or forbearing, 

You may do miracles by persevering. 

Last, though not least, in love, ye youthful fair. 
Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care ! 
To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkl'd brow. 
And humbly begs you'll mind the important Now ! 
To crown your happiness he asks your leave 
And offers bliss to give and to receive. 

For our sincere, tho' haply weak endeavours, 
With grateful pride we own your many favours; 
And howsoe'er our tongue may ill reveal it, 
Beheve our glowing bosoms truly feel it. 



frnlngiE, 

FOE ME. SUTHERLAND'S BENEFIT NIGHT, DUMEEIlBt 

What needs this din about tho town of Lon'on, 
How this new play and that new sang is comin' ? 
Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted ? 
Does nonsense mend, like whisky, when imported ? 



PROLOGUE, 

Is^ there nae poet, burning keen for fame, 
Will try to gi'e us saiigs and plays at hame ? 
For coracdy abroad he ncedna toil, 
A fool and knave are plants of every soil; 
Nor need he liunt as far as Rome and Greec« 
To gather matter for a serious piece ; 
There's themes enough in Caledonian story, 
Would show the Tragic Muse in all her glory. 

Is there no daring bard will rise and tell 

How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell ? 

Where are the muses fled that could produce 

A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce ; 

How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the sword, 

'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord ; 

And after many a bloody, deathless doing, 

Wrench'd his dear country from the jaws of ruin? 

Oh for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene, 

To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen ! 

Vain all th' omnipotence of female charms 

'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion's arms. 

She fell — but fell with spirit truly Roman, 

To glnt the vengeance of a rival woman: 

A woman — tho' the phrase may seem uncivil— 

As alile and as cruel as the Devil ! 

One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page, 

But Douglases were heroes every age : 

And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life, 

A Douglas followed to the martial strife. 

Perhaps if bowls row right, and Right succeeds. 

Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads. 

As ye hae generous done, if a' the land 

Would take the muses' servants by the hand; 

Not only hear, but patronise, befriend them. 

And where ye justly can commend, commend them 

And ai])lius when they winna stand the test. 

Wink hard and saj-^ the folk ha'e done their best ; 

Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caution 

Ye'll soon ha'e poets o' the Scottish nation, 

Will gar fame blaw until her trumpet crack, 

And warsle Time, and lay him on his back ! 

For us and for our stage should ony spier, 

" What's aught thae cliiels maks a' this bustle here? 

My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow. 

We have the honour to belong to j'-ou I 

We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like. 

But like gude mithers, shore before you strike. 

And gratefu' still I hope ye'll ever find us, 

For a' the patronage and meikle kindness 

We've got frae a' professions, sects, and ranks, 

God help ns ! we're but poor — ye'se get but thanks. 



J 



281 BTJENS'S POETICAL "^S^ORKS. 

TO A GENTLEMAN WHO HAD SENT THE POET A HEWB« 

PAPER, AND OPFEEED TO CONTINUE IT TREB 0¥ 

EXPENSE. 

Kind Sir, I've read pour paper tlirougli, 

And faith, to me 't\v as really new ! 

How guessed ye, Sir, what maist I wanted? 

This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted. 

To ken what French mischief was a-hrewin', 

Or what the drumhe Dutch v/ere doin' ; 

That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph, 

If Venus yet had got his nose off"; 

Or how the collieshangie works 

Atween the Russians and the Turks ; 

Or if the Swede, before ho halt. 

Would pay anither Charles the Twalt : 

If Denmark, ony body spalc o't ; 

Or Poland, wha liad now the tack o't; 

How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin ; 

How libbet Italy was singin' ; 

If Spaniard, Portugueeo, or Swiss, 

Were sayin' or takiu aught amiss ; 

Or how our merry lads at hame, 

lu Britain's court, kept up the game; 

How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him ! 

Was managing St. Stephen's quorum ; 

If sleekit Chatham Will was livin', 

Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ; 

How daddie Burke the plea was cookin'. 

If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin' ; 

How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd, 

Or if hare yet were tax'd; 

The news o' princes, dukes, and earls, 
Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera girls j 
If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales, 
Was threshin' still at hizzies tails ; 
Or if he was grown oughtlins douser, 
Aiid na o' perfect kiutra cooser. 
A' this and mair I never heard of, 
And but for you I might despair'd of. 
So gratefu' hack your news I send you, 
And pray a' guid things may attend you I 
JElUsland, Monday Morning. 



f mj liirijulsnu* 



Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 

As ever trod on airn ; 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 

And past the mouth o' Cairn. 



FIEST EPISTLE TO MK. GKAUAM. 285 

Peg Nicliolson was a good bay mare, 

And rode thro' thick and thin ; 
But now she's Hoatiiig down the Nith, 

And wanting e'en the skin. 

Peg Nicholson was a good hay mare, 

And ance she bore a priest ; 
But nov/ she's floating down the Nith, 

For Solway tish a least. 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 

And the priest he rode her sair ; 
And much oppress'd and bruis'd she wai 

As priest-rid cattle are — 
* * 



Thou bed, in which I first began 
To be that various creature — Man ! 
And when again the Fates decree, 
The place where I must cease to be ; — 
When sickness comes, to whom I fly. 
To soothe mj' pain, or close mine eye ;— 
Wlien cares around me, where I weep. 
Or lose them all in balmy sleep ; — 
When sore with labour, whom I court, 
And to thy downy breast resort — 
Where, too ecstatic joys I find, 
When deigns my Delia to be kind-^ 
And full of love, in all her charms. 
Thou giv'st the fair one to ray arms. 
The centre thou — where grief and pain, 
Disease and rest, alternate reign. 
Oh, since within thy little space, 
So many various scenes take place ; 
Lessons as useful shalt thou teach, 
As sages dictate — churchmen preach ; 
And man convinced by thee alone, 
This great imi)ortant truth shall own: 
" That thin partitio7is do divide 
The bounds where good and ill reside; 
That nought is perfect here heloio 
But BLISS still bordering vjpon WOE." 



jFirst dFjiistli^ ta 3Hr. #niliam, 



OF PINTET. 



WHEN' Nattnv h(.'r gvent miist(M'-])iece designed, 
And fram'd her last b(>st work, the Immanmind, 
Her eye intent on all the ma/y plan. 
She formed of various parts the various man. 



286 BUKNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

Tlien first she calls tlie useful many forth ; 

Plain plodding industry, and sober worth : 

Thence, peasants, farmers, native sons of earth, 

And merchandise' whole genus, take their birth ; 

Each prudent cit a \varm existence finds. 

And all mechanics' many apron'd kinds. 

Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, 

The lead and buoy are needful to the net ; 

The Cajput mortuum of gross desires, 

Makes a material for mere knights and squires ; 

The martial phosphorus is taught to fiow, 

She kneads the lumpish, philosophic dough, 

Then marks th' unj'ielding mass with grave designs, 

Law, physic, politics, and deep divines : 

Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles, 

The flashing element of female souls. 

The order'd system fair before her stood, 

Nature, well pleas 'd, pronounc'd it very good; 

But 'ere she gave creating labour o'er, 

Half-jest, she cried one curious labour more. 

Some spumy, fiery, ignis fatuus matter, 

Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter; 

With arch alacrity and conscious glee, 

(Nature may have her whim as well as we, 

Her Hogarth-art, perhaps, she meant to show it,) 

She forms the thing, and christens it — a poet. 

Creature, tho' oft the prey of care and sorrow, 

When blest to-day unmindful of to-morrow, 

A being form'd t'amuse his graver friends, 

Admir'd and prais'd — and there the homage ends : 

A m.ortal quite unfit for fortune's strife. 

Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life ; 

Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, 

Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live ; 

Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan, 

Yet ti'equsntly unheeded in his own. 

But Iwnest Nature is not quite a Turk, 

She laugh'd at first, then felt for her poor work ; 

Pit^'ing the propless climber of mankind, 

She cast about a standard tree to find ; 

And, to support his helpless, woodbine state, 

Attach'd him to the generous, truly great, 

A title, and the only one I claim, 

To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Graham. 

Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train, 
Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormj'- main ! 
Their hearts no selfish, stern, absorbent stuff, 
That never gives — tho' humbly takes enough ; 
The little fate aliows they share as soon. 
Unlike sage proverL'd wisdom's hard-wrung boon. 



THE PIVE CAELIXES. 28" 

The world were blest, did bliss on them depend, 
Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a friend ! " 
Let jirudence nuuiljer o'er each sturdy son, 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun, 
Who feel by reason and who give by rule, 
(Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool !) 
Who make poor will do wait u])on I should— 
"VVe own they're prudent, but who feels they're good I 
Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! 
God's image rudely ctch'd on base alloy ! 
But, come, ye who the godhke pleasure know 
Heaven's attribute distinguish'd— to bestow ! 
Whose arms of love would grasp the human race : 
Come thou who giv'st with all a courtier's grace j 
Friend of my life ! true patron of my rhymes ! 
Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. 
Wliy shrinks my soul, half blushing, half afraid, 
Backward, abash'd, to ask thy friendly aid ? 
I know my need, I know thy giving hand, 
I crave thy friendshp at thy kind command ; 
iBut there are such who court the tuneful nine — 
Heavens ! should the branded character be mine ! 
Whose verse in manhood's pride subhmely flows, 
Yet vilest reptiles, in their begging prose. 
Mark, now their loftj', independent spirit 
Soars on the spurning wing of injur'd merit ! 
Seek not the proofs in private life to find ; 
Pity the best of words should be but wind ! 
So to Heaven's gates the lark's shrill song ascends. 
But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. 
In all the clam'rous cry of starving want, 
They dun benevolence with shameless front; 
Oblige them, patronise their tinsel lays, 
They persecute j-ou all your future days ! 
'Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain ! 
My horny fist assume the plough again ; 
The pie-bald jacket let me patch once more; 
On eighteen-pence a-week I've liv'd before. 
Tho', thanks to Heaven, I dare even that last shift! 
I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift : 
That, plac'd by thee upon the wish'd-for height. 
Where, man and natm-e fairer in her sight, 
My muse may imp her wing for some sublimer flight. 



Theee were five carlines in the south. 

They fell upon a scheme, 
To send a lad to Lon'on town, 

To bring them tidings hame. 



BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

Nor only bring tliem tidings hame, 

But do their errands there, 
And aiblins gowd, and honour baith 

Might be tliat kiddie's share. 

There was Maggy by the banks o' Nith, 

A dame with pride eneugh, 
And JSIaijory o' tlie ]\Ionylochs, 

A carhne old and teugh. 

And bhnkin' Bess o' Annandale, 

That dwelt near Solwayside, 
And whisky Jean, that took her gill. 

In Galloway sae wide. 

And black Joan, Irae Cnchton Peel, 

0' gipsy kith and kin — 
Five whiter carlines warna foun' 

The south countra within. 

To send a lad to Lon'on town, 

They met upon a day, 
And mony a knight, and mony a laird. 

Their errand lain would gae. 

mony a knight and mony a laird, 

This errand fain would gac; 
But nae ane could their fancy please, 

O ne'er a ane but twae. 

The first he was a belted knight. 

Bred o' a border clan. 
And he wad gang to Lon'on town. 

Might nae man him withstau*. 

And he wad do their errands weel. 

And meikle he wad say, 
And ilka ane at Lon'on court 

Would bid to him guid day. 

Then next came in a sodger youth, 
And spak wi' modest grace, 

And he wad gae to Lon'on town 
If sae their pleasure was. 

He wadna hecht them com-tly gifts, 

Nor meikle speech pretend, 
But he wad hecht an honest heart. 
Wad ne'er desert a friend. 

Now, wham to choose, and wham refoM^ 

At strife their carlines fell ! 
For some had gentlefolks to please, 

And some would please themsel. 



THE FIVE CAKLINES. 289 

t 

Then out spak raim-niou'd ]\Ieg o' Nith, 

And she spak up wi' pride. 
And she wad send the sodger youth, 

Whatever might betide. 

For the auld guidman o' Lou'on court 

She didua care a pin ; 
But she wad send the sodger youth 

To greet his eldest son, 

Then up sprang Bess o' Annaudale, 

And a deadly aith she's ta'en, 
That she wad vote the border knight, 

Though she should vote her lane. 

For far-off fowls ha'e feathers fair, 

And fools o' change are fain ; 
But I ha'e tried the^border knight, 

And I'll try him yet again. 

Says black Joan frae Crichton Peel, 

A carhne stoor and grim. 
The auld guidman, and the young guidmman, 

For me may sink or swim. 

For fools will freat o' right or wrang, 

While knaves laugh them to scorn ! 
But the sodgers friends ha'e blawn the beg^ 

So he shall bear the horn. 

Then whisky Jean spak owi-e her drink, 

Ye weel ken, kiramers a', 
The auld guidman o' Lon'on court, 

His back's been at the wa' ; 

And mony a friend that kiss'd his cup. 

Is now a fremit wight : 
But it's ne'er be said o' whisky Jean— • 

I'll send the border knight. 

Then slow raise Maijory o' the Loch, 

And wrinkled was her brow, 
Her ancient weed was riKset grey. 

Her auld Scot's bluid was true. 

There's some great folks set light by m^ 

I set as light by tliem ; 
But I will send to Lon'on town 

Wham I like best at hame. 

Sae how this weighty plea may end, 

Nae mortal wight can tell : 
9od grant the king and ilka man 

^lay look weel to himsel. 

19 ii 



290 BUENS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 

OP FIJfTRT, 

FiNTEY, my stay in worldly strife. 
Friend o' my muse, friend o' my life. 

Are ye as idle's I am ? 
Come tlien, wi' uncouth, kintra fleg, 
O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg, 

And ye shall see me try him. 

I'll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears, 
Wlio left the all-important cares 

Of princes and their darlings ; 
And bent on winning borougli towns, 
Came shaking hands wi' wabster louns, 
And kissing bareflt carlins. 

Combustion through our boroughs rode 
Whistling his roaring pack abroad, 

Of mad, unmuzzled lions ; 
As Queensberry buff" and blue unfurl'd, 
And Westerha' and Hopeton hurl'd 

To every Whig detiance. 

But Queensberry, cautious, left the wai*, 
The unmanner'd dust might soil his star. 

Besides, he hated bleeding ; 
But left behind his heroes bright, 
Heroes in Caesarean fight 

Or Ciceronian pleading. 

Oh for a throat like huge Mons-meg, 
To muster o'er each ardent Whig 

Beneath Drumlanrig's banners ; 
Heroes and heroines commix 
All in the field of politics. 

To win immortal honours. 

M'Murdo and his lovely spouse, 

(Th' enamour'd laurels kiss her brows,) 

Led on the loves and graces ; 
She won each gaping burgess' heart 
While he, all-conquering, play'd his part 

Among their wives and lasses. 

Craidarroch led a light-arm'd coi-ps ; 
Tropes, metaphors, and figures pour. 

Like Hecla, streaming thunder; 
Glenriddel, skill'd in rusty coins, 
Blew up each Tory's dark designs. 

And bar'd the treason under. 

In cither wing two champions fought, 
Eedoubted Staig, who set at nought ' 



SECOND EPISTLE TO MK. GEADAM. 

The wildest savage Tory. 
And Welsh, who ne'er yet fiinch'd his ground. 
High wav'd his magnum boniim lound 

With Cyclopean fury. 

Miller brought n]) the artillery ranks. 
The many pounders of the Banks, 

Resistless desolation ; 
While Maxwelton, that baron bold, 
Mid Lawson's port entreuch'd his hold, 

And threaten'd worse damnation. 

To these, what Tory hosts oppos'd ; 
With these, what Tory warriors clos'd, 

Sm'passes my descriving : 
Squadrons extended long and large, 
With furious speed rush'd to the charge. 

Like raging devils di'iving. 

What verse can sing, what prose narrate. 
The butcher deeds of bloody fate 

Amid this mighty tulzie ? 
Grim horror grinn'd, pale terror roar'd. 
As murther at his thrapple shor'd ; 
And hell mixt iu the brulzie ! 

As Highland crags, by thunder cleft 
When hghtnings lire the stormy lift, 

Hurl down wi' crashing rattle ; 
As flames amang a hundred woods ; 
As headlong foam a hundred floods ; 

Such is the rage of battle. 

The stubborn Tories dare to die ; 
As soon the rooted oaks would fly, 

Before th' approaching fellers; 
The Whigs come on like ocean's roar. 
When all his wintry billows pour 

Against the Buchan BuUers. 

Lo! from the shades of death's deep night, 
Departed Whigs enjoy the fight, 

And thi)ik on former daring ; 
The muffled murtherer of Charles 
The Magna Charta flag unfurls, 

All deadlj' gules its bearing. 

Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame, 

Bold Scrimgeoiu- follows gallant Grahame^ 

And Covenanters shiver — 
[Forgive, forgive, much-wrong'd Montroaa^ 
Whife death and hell engulf thy foes, 

Thou liv'st on high for ever ! ) 

Still o'er the field the combat burns ; 
The Tories, Whigs give way by turns i 



293 



BTJBNS S POETICAL WOEKt. 

But fate the word has spoken — 
For woman's wit, or strength of man, 
Alas ! can do but what the}' can — 

The Tory ranks are broken ! 

Oh that my een were flowing burns, 
My voice a lioness that mourns 

Her darhng cub's undoing ; 
That I might greet, that I might cry, 
While Tories fall, while Tories fly, 

And furious Whigs pursuing. 

Wliat Wliig but wails the good Sir Jarne* 
Dear to his country by the names 

Friend, Patron, Benefactor ? 
Not Pultney's wealth can Pultney save : 
And Hopeton falls, the generous brave ! 

And Stuart bold as Hector ! 

Thou, Pitt, shall rue this overthrow. 
And Thurlow growl a curse of woe, 

And Melville melt in wailing ; 
Now Fox and Sheridan rejoice, 
And Burke shall sing, " O prince, arise s 

Thy power is all prevailing." 

For your poor friend, the Bard afar. 
He hears, and only hears the war, 

A good spectator purely ; 
So when the storm the forest rends, 
The robin in the hedge descends 

And sober chirps securely. 



(&n Cirptaiii frnsB's f urBgrinatintts 

fHROUGH SCOTLAND, COLLECTING THE ANTIQUITIBS Of 
THAT KINGDOM, 

Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, 
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groats, 
If there's a hole in a' your coats, 

I rede ye tent it ; 
A chield's amang you taking notes. 

And, faith, he'll prent it 

If in your bounds ye chance to light 

Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight, 

O* stature short, but genius bright, 

Tliat's he — mark weel, 
And wow ! he has an unco slight 

O' cauk and keel. 



CAPTAIN GEOSK's TERlCaRINATIONS. 293 

By some auld lioiilct-liauntod bigs'in, 

Or kirk deserted l)y its ri2:gin, 

It's ten to aue ye'll liiul him snug in 

Some eldritch part, 
Wi' deils, they say, Lord save's, colleaguim* 

At some black art. 

Hk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chaumer. 

Ye gipsey-gang that deal in glamour, 

And you, deep-read in hell's black grammafi 

Warlocks and witches ; 
Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer. 

Ye midnight bitches. 

It's tauld he was a soager Dred, 
And ane wad rather t'a'n than fled ; 
But now he's quat the spurtle blade, 

And dog-skin wallet, 
And ta'en the — Antiquarian trade, 

I think they call it. 

He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets, 
Rusty aird caps and jinghn', jackets, 
Wad baud the Lothians three in tackets, 

A towmont guid : 
And pan'aitch-pats, and auld saut-backet* 

Before the Flood. 

Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder, 
Auld Tubalcain's fire-shool and fender. 
That which distinguished the gender 

0' Balaam's ass ; 
A broomstick o' the witch of Endor, 

Weel shod wi' brass. 

Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu' gle^^- 
The cut of Adam's philabeg ; 
The knife that nicket Abel's craig. 

He'll prove you fully, 
It was a faukling jocteleg, 

Or lang-kail guUy. 

But wad ye see him in his glee, 
For meikle glee and fun has he, 
Then set him down, and twa or three 

Guid fellows wi' him, 
And port. Oh port ! shine thou a wee. 

And then ye'll see him. 

Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose. 
Thou art a dainty chiel, Oh Grose ! 
Wliae'er o' thee shall ill suppose, 

They sair misca' thee ; 
I'd take the rascal by the nose, 

Wad say, shame fa' thee. 



j}94 EtJKNS S POETICAL "WOKKb. 

ENCLOSING A. LETTER TO CAPTAIN OSOS& 

Ken ye aught o' Captain Grose ? 

Igo and ago, 
If he's amang his fi-iends or foes ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 
Is he south or is he north ? 

Igo and ago. 
Or drowned in the river Forth ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 
Is he sLain by Ilighhm' bodies ? 

Igo and ago,. 
And eaten hke a wether haggis ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 
Is he to Abram's bosom gane ? 

Igo and ago. 
Or haudin Sarah by tlie wame ? 

Iram, corani, dago, 
Where'er he be, the Lord be near him, 

Igo and ago, 
As for the deil, he daurna steer him, 

Iram, coram, dago. 
But please transmit the enclosed letter, 

Igo and ago, 
Wliich will oblige your humble debtor, 

Iram, coram, dago. 
So may ye ha'e auld stanes in store, 

Igo and ago, 
The vei-y stanes that Adam bore, 

Iram, coram, dago. 
So may ye got in glad possession, 

Igo and ago, 
The coins o' Satan' coronation ! 

Iram, coram, diigo. 



9il]inB iif IMjeliiit 

TO THE PRESIDENT OP THE HIGHLAND SOCIBTT. 

Long hfe, my Lord, and health be yours, 
Unscaith'd by hunger'd Highland boors ; 
Lord grant nae duddie, desperate beggar, 
Wi' dirk, clajonore, or rusty tngger, 
May twin auld Scotland o' a Hfe_ 
She hkes — as lambkins like a knife. 

Faith, vou and A s were right 

To keep the Highland hounds in sight : 
I doubt na ! they wad hid nae better 
Than let ^hem ance out owre the water j 



ADDEE'SS TO BEELZEBUB. 293 

TLen up amang thrae lakes and seas 
They'll male wiiat rules and laws they please; 
Some diU'ing Hancock or a Franklin, 
May set their Highland bluid a-ranklin' ; 
Some Washinc^ton again may head them, 
Or some j\Iontg<)mory, fearless, lead them, 
Till God knows what may be effected 
When by such heads and hearts directed— 
Poor dunghill sons of dirt aud mire 
May to Patrician rights asi)ire ! 
Nae sage North, now, nor sager Sackville, 
To watch and premier o'er the pack vile, 
And whare will ye get Howes and Clintons 
To bring them to a right repentance. 
To cowe the rebel generation, 
And save the honour o' the nation ? 

They aud be d d ! what right ha'e they 

To meat, or sleep, or light o' day ? 

Ear less to riches, pow'r, or freedom, 

But what your lordship likes to gi'e them ? 

But hear, my lord ! Glengarry, hear ! 
Your hand's owre light on them, I fear; 
Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies, 
I canna say but they do gaylies ; 
They laj' aside a' tender mercies, 
And tirl the halUons to the birses ; 
Yet while they're only poind't and herriet, 
They'll keep their stubborn Plighland spirit 
But smash them ! crash them a' to spails ! 
And rot the dyvors i' the jails ! 
The 3'oung dogs, swinge them to the laboar 
Let wark and hunger mak them sober ! 
The hizzies, if they're aughtlins fawsont. 
Let them in Drury-lane be lesson'd ! 
And if the wives and dirty brats 
E'en thigger at your doors and yetts 
Flaflan wi' duds and grey wi' beas', 
Frightin' awa j'our deucks and geese. 
Get out a horsewhip or a jowler. 
The langest thong, the fiercest growler, 
And gar the tattered gipsies' pack, 
Wi' a' their bastards on their back ! 
Go on, my Lord ! I lang to meet you. 
And in my house at hame to greet yoiij 
Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle, 
The benmost neuk beside the ingle. 
At my riglit han' assigned your seat 
'Tween Herod's hip and I'olycrate— 
Or if you on your station tarrow, 
Between Almagro and Pizarro 



29^ BTJRNS'S POETICAIi WOEKS. 

A scat, I'm sure ye'i-e weel dcsorvin't ; 
And till yc come — Your humble servant^ 

IJEEIiZEBU*. 

June \st, Anno Mundi, 6790. 



ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. 

Now Nature liangsMicr mantle green 

On every bloomins? tree, 
And spreads her sheet o' daisies whit^ 

Out o'er the ijjrassy lee : 
Now riuebu.s cheers the t^ystal streams. 

And {,^lads the aziu-e skies ; 
But nought can glad the weary wiglit 

That fast in durance lies. 

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn, 

Aloft on dewy wing ; 
The merle, in his noontide bow'r 

Makes woodbind echoes ring : 
The niavis wild wi' mony a note, 

Sings drowsy day to rest : 
In love and freedom they rejoice, 

Wi' care nor thrall opprest. 

Now blooms the lily by the bank, 

The primrose down the brae ; 
The hawthorn's budding in the glen. 

And milk-while is the slae ; 
The meanest hind in fair Scotland 

May rove their sweets amang; 
But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, 

Maun lie in prison Strang ! 

I was the Queen o' bonm'e France 

Where happy I ha'e been ; 
Fu' lightly rase I in the morn, 

As blytlie lay down at e'en : 
And I'm the sov'rcign of Scotland, 

And mony a traitor there ; 
Yet here I lie in foreign bands. 

And never-ending care. 

But as for thee, thou false woman ! 

My sister and my tae, 
Grim vengeance yet shall whet a sword 

That thro' thy soul shall gae ! 
The weeping blood in w(mian's breast 

Was never known to thee ; 
"Nor th' l)alni tliat draps on wounds of WOO 

Frao woman's j)itying e'e. 



L 



IDE WUISTLB. 297 

My son ! my son ! may kinder staif , 

Upon thy fortune shine ! 
And may those jjleasures gild thy reign, 

Tliat ne'er wad hWuk on niniel 
God keep tlice irac thy mother's faes, 

Or turn their hearts to tliec : 
And where thou nieet'st thy mother's friend 

Kcmember him for me ! 

Oh soon, to me, may summer-suns 

Nae mair hght up tlie morn ! 
Nae mail', to me, the autumn winds 

Wave o'er the yellow corn ! 
And in the narrow Iiouse o' death 

Let winter round me rave : 
And the next ilow'rs that deck the spring 

Bloom oii my peaceful grave ! 



lljB EHjiBtll?. 



I siNO of a wlii'stlc, a whistle of worth, 

I sing of a whistle, the jtride of the North, 

Was l)rought to the court of our good Scottish king. 

And long with this whistle all Scotland shall ring. 

Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal, 
The god of the bottle sends down' fi'om his hall — 
"This whistle's your challenge^to Scotland get o'er, 
And drink them to hell, Sir ! or ne'er see me more ! " 

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, 
What champions ventur'd, what champions fell; 
The son of great Loda was conqueror still, 
And blew on the whistle his requiem shrill. 

Till Eobert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur, 
Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconcjuer'd in war, 
He drank his poor godship as deep as the sea. 
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. 

Thus Kobert, victoriolis, the trophy has gain'd, 
Which now in his house has for ages remained; 
Till three noble chieltains, and' all of liis blood, 
The jovial contest again have renew'd. 

Tliree joyous good fellows, with hearts clear as flaw; 
Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law; 
And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins; 
And gallant Sir Robert, deej) read in old wines. 

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smootli as oil, 
Desiring (ilenriddd to yield up the ^)o\l ; 
Or else ho would muster the heads of the clan, 
And once more, in claret, try which w'as the man* 



208 BUKNS'S POETICAL "\Y0ilKt5. 

" By the gods of tlie ancients ! " Glenriddel replies, 
" Before I surrender so glorious a prize, 
I'll conjure the ghost of the great liorie More, 
And bumper his horn with hixn twenty times o'er." 

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend, 
But he ne'er turned his back on his foe — or his friend. 
Said, toss down the whistle, the ])rize of the field, 
And, knee-deep in claret, he'd die, or he'd yield. 

To the board of Glenriddel om* heroes repair, 

So noted for drowning of sorrow and care ; 

But for wine and for welcome not more known to fame 

Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet, lovely dame. 

A bard was selected to witness the h-ay, 
And tell future ages the feats of the day ; 
A bard who detested all sadness and spleen, 
And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been. 

The dinner being o'er, the claret they ply, 

And every new cork is a new spring of joy ; 

In the bands of old friendship and kindi-ed so set, 

And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet. 

Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er ; 
Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core. 
And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn, 
Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn. 

Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night, 
When gallant Sir Robert, to tinish the fight, 
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red. 
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestor did. 

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage, 
No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage; 
A high ruling Elder to wallow in wine ! 
He left the foul business to folks less divine. 

The gallant Sir Robert fcught hard to the end, 
But who can with fate and quart bumpers contend ? 
Though fate said — a hero shall perish in hght. 
So up rose bright Phoebus — and down fell the knight, 

Next up rose our bard, like a prophet in drink — 
*' Craigdarroch thou'lt soar when creation shall sink ; 
But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, 
Come — one bottle more — and have at the sublime I 

Thy line, that have struggl'd for freedom and Bruce^ 

Shall heroes and patriots ever produce ; 

So thine be the laurel, and mine be the lay, 

The field thou hast won, by yon bright >fod of dayl " 



299 



&\m 



MISS BUENET, OF MONBODDO. 

LiKE ne'er exulted in so rich a prize 
As Burnet, lovely froni her native skies ; 
Nor envious death so triuniph'd in a blow, 
As that which laid the accomplished Boi-net low. 

Thj- form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget ? 

lu richest ore the brightest jewel set ! 

In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown. 

As by His noblest work the Godhead best is known. 

In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, j'^e groves ; 

Thou crystal streamlet with thy flow'ry shore, 
Ye \voodland choir, that chant your idle loves, 

Ye cease to charm — Eliza is no more ! 

Ye heathy wastes, imnix'd with reedy fens ; 

Ye mossj' streams, with sedge and rushes stor'd ; 
Ye rugged clifls, o'erhanging dreary glens, 

To you I fly, ye with my soul accord. 

Princes, whose cumb'rous pride was all their worth, 
Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail ? 

And thou, sweet excellence 1 forsake our earth, 
And not a muse in honest grief bewail ? 

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride. 
And virtue's light, that beams beyond the spheres i 

But, like the sun eclips'd at morning tide. 
Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears. 

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thea. 

That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care; 
So deck'd the woodbine sweet yon aged tree ; 

So from it ravish'd, leaves it bleak and bare. 



FOK JAMES, EAKL OF GLENCAIEK. 

The wind blew hollnvr frae the hills, 

By fits the sun's departing beam 
Look'd on the fading yellow woods 

That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream 
Beneath a craggy steep, a bard. 

Laden with 3'ears and meiklc pain, 
Itt loud lament bewail'd his lord, 

Whom death ha:? aU untimely ta'en. 



goo BLKxNS's POETICAL WOBKS. 

He lean'cl him to an ancient aik, 

Whose trunk was uiould'ring down with ye«r6| 
His locks were bleaclied whit e^ with time, 

His hoary cheek was wet \^'i' tears ; 
And as he touch'd his trembhng harp, 

And as he tun'd liis doleful sang, 
The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, 

To echo bore the notes alang. 

"Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing 

The reliques of the vernal quire ! 
Ye woods that shed on a' the winds 

The lionours of the aged year : 
A few short months, and glad and gay, 

Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e ; 
But nought in all revolving time 

Can gladness bring again to me. 

I am a bending aged tree, 

That long has stood the wind and rain ; 
But now has come a cruel blast, 

And my last hold of earth is gane ; 
Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, 

Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom ; 
But I maun he before the storm, 

And ithers plant them in my room. 

I've seen sae mony changefu' years, 

On earth I am a stranger grown ; 
I wander in the ways of men, 

Alike unknowing and unknown : 
Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved, 

I bear alane my lade o' care, 
' For silent, low, on beds of dust, 

Lie a' that would my sorrows share. 

And last (the s\im of a' my griefs !) 

My noble master lies in clay ; 
The flow'r amang our barons bold, ^ 

His country's pride-! his country's staj-* 
In weary being now I pine, 

For a'"^ the life o' life is dead, 
And hope has left my aged ken. 

On forward wing for ever fied. 

Awake thy last sad voice, my harpj 
The voice of woe and wild despair; 

Awake ! resound thy latest lay- 
Then sleep in silence evermair ! 

And thou, my last, best, oidy fiiend, 
That tillest an untimely tomb, 

Accept tiiis tribute from the bard 

Thoubrought''=<- fvom fortune's mirkestgloom. 



EPISTLE TG ME. GRAHAM. 801 

In poverty's low 1)arren Vcale 

Thick mists, obscure, iiivolv'd me round ; 
Though oft I turneii the wistful eye, 

Nao ray of fame was to be found : 
Thou found'st me like the moruing sun. 

That melts the fogs in limpid air, 
The ft-ieudlcss bard and rustic song 

llecame alike thy fostering c£h"e. 

Oh ! why has worth so short a date ? 

Wliile villains ripen grey with time; 
Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great, 

Fall in bold manhood's hardy primo ! 
"Why did I live to see that day ? 

A day to me so full of woe ! — 
Oh ! had I met the mortal shaft 

Which laid my benefactor low ! 

The bridegroom may forget the bride, 

Was made his wedded wife yestreen : 
The monarch may forget the crown 

That on his head an hour has been j 
The mother may forget the child 

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee ' 
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, 

And a' that thou hast done for me ! 



BBTfT TO SIE JOHN WHITEFOKD, BART., OP WHITl- 
FOED, WITH THE FOEEGOINO POEM. 

Tiiou, wdio thy honour as thy God rever'st, 

Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly feai'st, 

To thee this votive offering I impart, 

The fearful tribute of a broken heart. 

The friend thou valued'st, I, the patron, loved ; 

His worth, his honour, all the world approved; 

We'll mourn till we, too, go as he has gone. 

And tread the di-eary path to that dark world unknown. 



OP PINTEX. 

Late crlppl'd of an arni, and now a leg, 

About to beg a pass for leave to beg : 

Dull, listless, teased, dejected, and deprest, 

(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest) ; 

Will generous Graham list to his Poet's wail ? 

(It soothes poor miser}', hearkening to her tale) 

2» 



BURNS S POETICAL -WORKS. 

And hear lilm curse the light he first survey'd. 
And doubly curse the kickless rhyming trade. 

Thou, Nature, partial Nature ! I arraign ; 

Of thy caprice maternal I complain. 

The Hon and the bull thy care have found, 

One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground t 

Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, 

Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cellj 

Thy minion, kings, defend, control, devour, 

In all th' omnipotence of rule and power; 

Foxes and statesmen, sul)tile wiles insure; 

The cit and polecat stink, and are secure; 

Toads with their i)oison, doctors with their drug. 

The priest and hedgehog in their robes are snug ; 

Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts. 

Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts; 

But, oh ! thou bitter stei)mother and hard. 

To thy poor fenceless, naked cliild — the Bard ! 

A thing unteachable in world's skill. 

And half an idiot, too, more helpless still; 

No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun; 

No claws to dig, his hated sigiit to shun ; 

No horns but those by luckless Hymen worn, 

And those, alas ! not Amalthea's horn : 

No nerves olfact'r}'. Mammon's trusty cur, 

Clad in rich dullness' comfortable fur ; — 

In naked feeling, and in aching pride. 

He bears the unbroken blast from every side : 

Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart, 

And scoi^pion critics cureless venom dart. 

Critics ! — appall'd I venture on the name. 
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame : 
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes ! 
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. 

His heart by causeless, wanton malice wrung, . 

.By blockhead's daring into madness stung ; 

His well- won Vays than life itself more dear, 

By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must wear; 

Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd, in the' unequal strife, 

The hapless poet flounders on through life ; 

Till fled each hope that once his bosom lir'd. 

And fled each muse that glorious once inspir'd, 

Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age, 

Dead, even resentment, for his injur'd page, 

He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's rage I 

So, by some hedge, the generous steed deceas'd. 
For half-starv'd, snarling curs a dainty feast 
By toil and famine worn to skin and bone, 
Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son. 



EPISTLE TO ME. GEAHAM. 303 

Oh dullness ! portior. of the iruly blest ! 
Calm, shelter'd haven of eternal rest ! 
Thy sons ne'er madden in the tierce extremes 
Of fortnne's polar frost or torrid beams. 
If manthng hig-h she fills the golden cup, 
With sober, selfish ease thej' sip it up : 
Conscious the bounteous meed thej'^ well deserve^ 
They only wonder " some folks " do not starve. 
The grave, sage hern thus easy picks his frog. 
And tliinks the mallard a sad, worthless dog. 

When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, 

And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope, 

With deaf endurance slug2:ishly they bear. 

And jast conclude that " fools are fortune's care." 

So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks. 

Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. 

Not so the idle muse's mad-cap train. 

Not such the workings of their moon-struck braitt 

In equanimity they never dwell. 

By turns in soaring Heaven, or vaulted hell. 

I dread thee, fate, relentless and severe, 
With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear ! 
Already one strong hold of hope is lost, 
Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust ; 
(Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noon appears, 
And left us darkling^n a world of tears ;) 
Oh, hear my ardent, grateful, selfish, pray'r ! — 
Fintry, my' other stay, long bless and spare ! 
Through a long life his hopes and wishes crown; 
And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down j 
May bhss domestic smooth his private path. 
Give energy to life, and soothe his latest breath. 
With many a filial tear circling the bed of death! 



jFnitrtli f jiiBtlB in BIr. ira^am. 

OP FINTET, ON EECEIVING A FAVOTJB. 

I CALL no goddess to inspire my strains, 
A fabled muse may suit a bard that feigns ; 
Friend of my life ! my ardent spirit burns, 
And all the tribute of my heart returns, 
For boons accorded, goodness ever new, 
The gift stiU dearer, as the giver, you. 

Tliou orb of day ! thou other paler light! 
Aud all ye many sparkling stars of night; 
If aught that giver from mj' mind efface, 
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace; 
Then roll to me, alang your wandering sphere^ 
Only to number out a villain's years ! 



304 



BURNS S POETICAL WOEKS. 



^t Eigljts nf I^HMii. 



AH OCCASIONAL ADDBESS, SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENBLLI^ 
ON HEE BENEFIT NIGHT, (nOV. 26, 1792). 

While Europe's eye is iix'd on mighty things. 
The fate of empires, and the fall of kings ; 
While quacks of state must each produce his plan. 
And even children lisp the Rights of Man ; 
Amidst this mighty fuss just let me mention, 
The Rights of Woman merit some attention. 

First, in the sexes' intermixed connection, 
One sacred Right of Woman is protection. 
The tender tiower that lifts its head, elate, 
Helpless, must fall before the blasts of fate, 
Sunk on the earth, defoc'd its lovely form, 
Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm. 

Our second right — hut needless here is caution, 
To keep that right inviolate's the fashion ; 
Each man of sense has it so full before him, 
He'd die before he'd wrong it — 'tis decorum. 
There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days, 
A time when, rough, rude mga^iad naughty ways; 
Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot, 
Nay even thus invade a lady's quiet. 
Now, thank our stars, these Gothic times are fled ; 
Now, weU-bred men — and you are all well bred- 
Most justly think (and we are much the gainers). 
Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners. 

For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest, 
That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest. 
Which even the Rights of Kings in low prostration. 
Most humblj' own — 'tis dear, dear admiration ! 
In that blest sphere alone we live and move ; 
There taste that life of life — immortal love ! 
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs, 
'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares ?^ 
When awful Beauty joins with all her charms. 
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms ? 



But truce with kings, and truc« with constitutioui^ 
With bloody annaments and revolutions, 
X<et majeatj ycnir Srtjt attention summon, 
jLht cft irs ! ihs majesty oj? woman ] 



PASTOEAL poKxar. d06 

to 3Hr. Mmmll 

0» terhaughty, ok nis bikth-day. 

Health to thee. Maxwell's vet'ran «iiief f 
Health aj'e unsour'd by care or grief, 
Inspir'dj I turn Fate's sybil leaf 

Tliis natal moru ; 
I see thv life is stuif o' prief, 

Scarce quite half worn. 

This day thou metcs'st three score eleven. 
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven, 
(The second sight, ye ken, is given 

To ilka poet) 
On thee a tack o' seven times seven 

Will yet bestow it. 

If envious buckles view wi' sorrow 

Thy lengthen 'd days on this blest morrow, 

May desolation's lang-teeth'd harrow, 

Nino miles an hour, 
Rake them like Sodom and Gomorrah, 

In brimstane shoure — 

But for thy friends, and they are mony, 
Baith honest men and lasses bonnie, 
May couthie ibrtuu!-, kind and cannie, 

In social glee, 
Wi' mornings blythe and e'enings funny, 

Bless them and thee ! 

Fareweel, auld birkie ! Lord be near ye, 

And the dcil he daurna steer ye ; 

Your friends aj-e love, your faes aye fear ye, 

For me, shame fa' me, 
If near'st my heart I dinna wear ye 

While BuENS they ca' me. 



Hail, Poesie ! thou nymph reserv'd. 
In chase o' thee what crowds hae swerv'd 
Frae common sense, or sunk unnerv'd 

'Mang heaps o' clavers ; 
And, och, owre aft thy joes ha'e starv'd 

'Mid a' thy favours ! 

Say, lassie, why thy train amang, 
While loud the trump's heroic clang, 
And sock or buskin skelp alang 

To death or marriage ; 
Scarce arte has tried the shepherd-sang, 

But wi' miscarriage ? 

20 2b3 



^06 BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS, 

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrivea ; 
Escbvlus' pen Will Shakspeare dnves ; 
Wee Pope, the knurliii, 'til him rives* 

Horatian fame ; 
In thy sweet sang, Barbaulcl, survives 

Ev'n Sappho's fame. 

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches ? 
They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches; 
Squira Pope but busks his skinklin patches 

O' heathen tatters ; 
I pass by hundred nameless wretches, 

That ape their betters. 

In this braw age of wit and lear, 
Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair 
Blaw sweetly in its native air 

And rural grace ; 
And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian share 

A rival place ? 

Yes, there's ane, a Scottish callan — 
There's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan ! 
Thou need na jouk behint the hallan, 

A chiel sae clever ; 
The teeth of time may gnaw Tantallan, 

But thou's for ever. 

Thou paints auld Nature to the nines, 

In thy sweet, Caledonian hues ; 

Nie gowden stream thro' myrtles twines, 

Where Philomel, 
While nightly breezes sweep the vines, 

Her griefs will tell ! 

In goweny glens thj-^ bm*nie strays, 
Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes : 
Ch* trots by hazelly shaws and braes, 

Wi' hawthorns grey, 
"Wliere blackbirds join the shepherd's lays 

At close o' day. 

Thy rural loves are nature's sel' ; 
Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell ; 
Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell 

O' witchin' love ; 
That charm, that can the strongest queU» 

The sternest move. 



THE TKEK OJ? LIUEETT. 807 

WSITTEN our THE 25tII JANUARY, 1$[93, THE BIETH-DAT 
OP THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A THRUSH SINQ IX A 
MORNINO WALK. 

Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough, 
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain, 
Sec aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, 

At thy blj'the carol clears his furrow'd brow. 

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear, 

Sits meek Content, with light, nnanxious heart, 
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part. 

Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. 

I thank thee, Author of this openmg d/»y ! 

Thou whoso bright sun now gilds yon orient skies ! 

Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys. 
What wealth could never give nor take away ! 

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care ! 
The mite high Heaven bestowed, that mite wth the a 
I'll share. 



THE TREE OP LIBERTY. 

Heard ye o' the tree o' France, 

I watna what's the name o't ; 
Around it a' the patriots dance, 

Weel Iilurope kens the fame o't ; 
It stands where ance the Bastile stood, 

A prison built by kings, man, 
When Superstition's heUish brood 

Kept France in leading strings, man. 

Upo' this tree there grows sic fruit, 

Its virtues a' can tell, man ; 
It raises man aboon the bnite. 

It makes him ken himself, man. 
If ance the peasant taste a bit 

He's greater than a lord, man. 
And wi' the beggar shares a mite 

0' a' he can afford, man. 

This fruit is worth a' Aft-ic's wealth, 

To comfort us 'twas sent, man ; 
To gi'e the sweetest blush o' health, 

And mak us a' content, man. 
It clears the een, it cheers the heart, 

Maks high and low guid friends, man. 
And he wha acts the traitor's part, 

It to perdition sends, man. 



308 



BUBNS S POETICAL W0EK8. 

My blessings aye attend the cliiel, 

Wha pitied Gallia's slaves, man, 
And staw'd a brancli, spite o' the deil, 

Frae yon't the western waves, man. 
Fair Virtue water'd it vvi' care, 

And now she sees wi' pride, man. 
How weel it buds and blossoms there. 

Its branches spreading wide, man, 

But vicious folk aye hate to see 

The works o' Virtue thrive, man; 
The courtly vermin's banned the tree, 

And grat to see it thrive, man, 
King Loui' thought to cut it down, 

Wlaen it was unco snia', man ; 
For this the watchmairCracked his crown 

Cut aff his head and a', man. 

A wicked crew syne, on a time. 

Did tak a solemn aith, man. 
It ne'er should flourish to its prime, 

I wat they pledged their faith, man. 
Awa, they gaed wi' mock parade. 

Like beagles hunting game, man, 
But soon grew weary o' the trade. 

And wished they'd been at hame, man. 

For Freedom, standing by the tree. 

He sons did loudly ca', man ; 
She sang a song o' liberty. 

Which pleased them ane and a', man. 
By her inspired, the new-born race 

Soon drew the avenging steel, man ; 
The hirelings ran — her foes gied chase, 

And bang'd the despot weel, man. 

Let Britain boast her hardy oak, 

Her poplar and her pine, man, 
Auld Britain ance could crack her joke. 

And o'er her neighbours shine, man. 
But seek the forest round and round, 

And soon 'twill be agreed, man. 
That sic a tree can not be found, 

'T^vixt London and the Tweed, : 

Without this tree, alack this life 

Is but a vale o' woe, man ; 
A scene o' sorrow mixed wi' strife, 

Nae real joys we know, man. 
We labour soon, we labour late, 

To feed the titled knave, man , 
And a' tlie comfort we're to get, 

Is that aj'ont the grave, man. 



S09 



Wi' plenty o' sic trees, T trow, 

The warld would live in peace, man ; 
The sword would ]w\p to mak a plough. 

The din o' war wad cea^e, man. 
Like brethren in a common cause, 

We'd on each other smile, man j 
And equal rights and equal laws 

Wad gladden every isle, man. 

Wae worth the loon wha wadiia eat 

Sic wliulesome, dainty cheer, man j 
I'd gae my shoon frae aff my feet. 

To taste sic fruit, I swear, man. 
Syne let us pray, auld England may 

Sure plant this far-famed tree, man ; 
And blythe we'll sing, and hail the day 

That gave us liberty, man. 



A PARODY ON EOBIN ADAIK. 

You'ee welcome to Despots, Dumourier ; 
You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier ; 

How does Dampiere do ? 

Ay, and Bournonville too ? 
WLy did they not come along with you, Dumourier ? 

I will figlit France with you, Dumourier ; 
I wi^fight France with you, Dumourier ; 
T will flight France with you ; 
I will take my chance with j'ou ; 
By my soul I'll dance a dance with you, Dumourier. 

Then let us fight about, Dumourier ; 
Then let us fight about, Dumourier j 

Then let us fight about, 

Till fi'eedom's spark is out, 
Then we'll be damu'd, no doubt — Dumourier. 



CBNI TO A aENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD OFFBNDBDu 

The friend whom wild from wisdom's way, 
The fumes of wine infuriate send ; 

(Not moony madness more astray) — 
Who but deplores that liapless friend ? 



810 BUHNS'S rOKTICAL WORKS. 

Mine was tli' insensate ft-enzied part, 
Ah, why should 1 such scenes outlive !^— 

Scenes so abhorrent to my heart ! 
'Tis thine to pity and forgive. 



3Hniui!iij 

ON A LADY FAMED TOE HER CAPRICE. 

How cold is that bosom which folly once fir'd, 

How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten'd j 

How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired, 
How dull is tliat ear which to flatter}' so listen'd ! 

If sorrow and anguisli their exit await. 

From friendship and dearest affection remov'd ; 

How doubly severer. Eliza thy fate. 

Thou diedst unwept, as thou lived'st unlov'd. 

Loves, graces, and virtues, I call not on you ! 

So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear : 
But come, all ye offspring of folly so true, 

And flowers let us cull for Eliza's cold bier. 
We'll seaj-ch through tlie garden for each silly flower, 

We'll roam through the forest for each idle weed ; 
But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, 

For none e'er approached her but rued the rash deed. 

We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay; 

Here vanity strums on her idiot l}Te ; 
There keen indignation sliall dart on her prey, 

Which spurning contempt shall redeem from his ire. 

THE EriTAPH, % 

Here lies now a prey to insulting neglect, 

What once was a butterfly gay in life's beam : 

Want only of wisdom denied her respect. 
Want only of goodness— denied her esteem. 



Prom those drear solitudes and frowsy cells. 
Where infamy with sad repentance dwells ; 
Wliero turnkeys make the jealous portal fast. 
And deal fi*om iron hands the spare repast. 
Where truant 'prentices, yet young in sin, 
Blush at the curious stranger peeping in ; 
Where strumpets, relics of the drunken roar. 
Resolve to di'ink, nay, half to whore no more : 
Where tiny thieves not destin'd yet to swing. 
Beat hemp for others, riper for the string: 



EPISTLE FROyi ESOPUS TO ilARIA. 311 

From these dire scenes my wretched lines I date. 
To tell Maria her Esopus' fate. 

" Alas ! I feel I am no actor here ! " 

'Tis real hangman, real sr')nrges bear ■ 

Prepare, Maria, for a horrid tale 

"Will tm-n thj'- very rouge to deadly pale ; 

Will make thy hair tlio' erst from gipsey poll'd, 

By barber woven, and bj' l)nrber sold, 

Though twisted smooth with Harry's nicest care. 

Like hoary bristles to erect and stare. 

The hero of the mimic scene, no more, 

I start in Hamlet, in Othello roar : 

Or haughty chiel'tain, 'mid the din of arms, 

In Higliland bonnet woo IMalvina's charms ; 

While sans culottes stoop up the mountain high, 

And steal from me ^Maria's eye. 

Blest Highland bonnet ! once mj' proudest dress, 

Now prouder still, j\[aria's temples press, 

I see her wave tlr,' towering plumes afar, 

And call each coxcomb to the wordy war; 

I see her face the tirst of Ireland's sons, 

And even out-Irish his Hibersiian bronze; 

The crafty Colonel leaves the tartaned lines 

For other wars where he a hero shines ; 

The hopeful youth in Scottish senate bred, 

Who owns a Bushby's heart without the head, 

Comes 'mid a string of coxcombs to display. 

That veni, vidi, vici, is his way ; 

The shrinking bard adown an alley skulks. 

And dreads a meeting worse than Woolwich hulks 

Though there, his heresies in church and state 

Might well award him Muir and Palmer's fate : 

Still she undaunted reels and rattles on, 

And dares the public like a noontide sun. 

(What scandal call'd Maria's jaunty stagger; 

The ricket reeling of a crooked swagger ! 

Whose spleen e'en worse than Burns's venom, when 

He dips in gall unmix'd his eager pen, 

And pours his vengeance in the burning line, 

Who chi-isten'd thus Maria's lyre divine, 

The idiot strum of vanity bemused. 

And even th' abuse of poesy abused : 

Who call'd her verse a parish workhouse, made 

For motley, foundling fancies, stolen or stray'd ?) 

A workhouse ! ah ! that sound awakes my woes. 

And pillows on the thorn my rack'd repose! 

In durance vile here must I wake and weep ! 

And all my fi-owsy couch in sorrow steep ! 

That straw where many a rogue has lain of yore, 

And veraiin'd gipsies litter'd heretofore. 

Why, Lonsdale, thus thy wrath on vagrants pour; 

Must earth no rascal save thyself endure ? 



S12 EUENS'S POETICAL WOKKS. 

Must thou alone, in guilt immortal swell, 

And make a vast monopoly of hell ? 

Thou knows't the virtues cannot hate thee worse ; 

The vices, also, niust they cluh their curse? 

Or must no tin}' sin to others fall, 

Because thj^ guilt's supreme, enough for all ? 

Maria, send me, too, thy griefs and cares ; 
In all of thee, sure thy Esopus shares. 

As thou at all mankind the flag unfurls. 

Who on my fair one satire's vengeance hurls ? 

Who calls tliee pert, aft'ectod, vain coquette, 

A wit in folly, and a fool in Avit ? 

AVho saj's that fool alone is not thy due. 

And quotes thy treacheries to prove it true ? 

Our force united on thy foes we'll turn, 

And dare the Avar with alfof woman horn : 

For who can write and speak as thou and I ? 

My periods that decyphering defj'-. 

And thy still matchless tongue that conquers all reply. 



SONNET, 



ON TIIE DEATH OP CAPTAIN RIDDEL, OF GLENEIDDEL, 
. APRIL, 1794. 

No more, ye warblers of the wood, — no more ! 
Nor pour your descant, grating, on my soul : 
Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole, 

More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar. 

How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all yom- dyes ? 

Ye blow upon the sod that wraps mj' fi-iend ! 

How can I to the tuneful strain attend ? 
That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where E-iddel 
lies! 

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe ! 
And soothe the Virtues weeping on the bier : 
The man of worth, who hath not left his peer, 

Is in his " narrow house" for ever darkly low. 

The Spring again with joy shall others greet, 
MCj mem'ry of mj- loss will onlj' meet. 



IIMPEOMPTU, 

ON MRS. riddel's BIRTH-DAT. 

Old Winter, with his frosty beard, 
Thi^s or.ce to Jove his prayer preferr'd— 
*' What h.ave I done of all the year, 
To hear this hated doom severe ? 



818 



My cheerless suns no pleasure know ; 
Night's horrid car drags dreary, slow ; 
My dismal months no joys aro'crowning, 
Butspleeny English, hanging, drowning, 
Now Jove, for once, ho mighty civil, 
To counterhalauco all this evil; 
Give me, and I've no Uiore to saj'-, 
Give mc Maria's natal day ! 
That hrilliant gift shall so enrich me. 
Spring, summer, autumn, cannot match _. 
" 'Tis done ! " says Jove ; so ends my story, 
And Winter once rejoic'd in glory. 



me. 



As I stood hy yon roofless tower, 

Wlaere the wa'-llower scents the dewy air. 
Where th' owlet mourns in her ivy bower 

And tells th e midnight moon her care— 
The winds were laid, the air was still, 

The stars they shot alang the sky ; 
The fox was howling on the hill, 

To the distant-echoing glen's reply. 

The stream, adown its hazelly path, 
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's, 

Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, 
Whose distant roaring swells and fa's. 

The caidd blue north was streaming forth 
Her lights, wi' hissing, eerie din ; 

Athwart the lift they start and shift, 
Like fortune's favours, tint as win. 

By heedless clianoe I turn'd mine eyes, 
And, by the moonbeam, shook to see 

A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, 
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be. 

Had I a statue been o' stane, 

His daring look had daunted me ; 
And on his bonnet grav'd was plain, 

The sacred motto—" Libertie ! " 
And frae his harp sic strains did flow, 

Might rous'd the slumb'ring dead to hear J 
But oh ! it was a tale of woe, 

As ever met a Briton's ear. 
He sang wi' joy the former day, 

He weeping wail'd his latter times; 
But what he said it was nae play — 

I wiuua ventur't in iny rhymes. 

20 



814 BUBNS'S POETICAL W0EK8. 

3titorti|-a /riignrBnt 

Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among-, 
■ Thee, fam'd for martial deeds and sacred song, 

To thee I turn with swimming ej^es ; 
Wliere is that soul of freedom fled ? 
Immingl'd with the mighty dead ! 

Beneath the hallow'd turf where Wallace liea. 
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death ! 

Ye babbhng winds, in silence sweep, 

Disturb not ye the hero's sleep. 
Nor give the coward secret breath. 

Is this the power in freedom's wai', 

That wont to bid the battle rage ? 
Behold that eye which sl^ot immortal hate, 

Crushing the despot's proudest bearing—: 
Behold e'en grizzly death's majestic state 

When Freedom's sacred glance e'en death is wearingi 



OP PINTET. 

Heee, where the Scottish muse immortal lives, 
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd. 

Accept the gift ; — tho' humble he who gives, 
Eich is the tribute of the grateful mind. 

So may no ruffian-feeling in thy*breast, 
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among; 

But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest. 
Or love ecstatic wake thy seraph song. 

Or pity's notes, in luxury of tears, 

As modest want the tale of woe reveals ; 

While conscious virtue all the strain endears. 
And heaven-born piety her sanction seals. 



THE VOWELS. 

A TALE. 

'TwAS where the birch and sounding thong are plie^ 

The noisy domicile of pedant pride, 

Where ignorance her dark'ning vapour throvrs. 

And cruelty directs the thick'ning blows ; 

Upon a time. Sir A-be-ce the great, 

In all the pedagogic powers elate. 

His awful chair of state resolves to mount, ' 

And call the trembling vowels to account. 



VEKSES TO JOHK Ei.^"KINE. 3K 

Fifi't «itei''(l A, n grave, broad, solemn wight, 
But, all ! det'onn'd, dish()iK\-^l to the sight ! 
His twisted head look d backward on his way, 
And flagrant from the scourge he grunted, ai! 

Rehictant, E stalk'd in ; with piteous race 
The jostling teilrs ran down his honest facel 
That name, that well-worn name, and all his own» 
Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne ; 
The Pedant stifles keen the Roman sound 
Not all his mongrel dipthongs can compoand; 
And next the title following close behind, 
He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd. 

The Gobweh'd Gothic dome resounded, Y ? 
In sullen vengeance, I, disdain'd reply : 
The pedant swung his felon cudgel round. 
And knock'd the groaning vowel to the ground ! 

In rueful apprehension enter'd 0, 
The wailing minstr&I of despairing wee ; 
Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert, 
Might there have learnt new mysteries of hisart; 
So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U, 

His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew ! 
As trembling U stood staring all aghast, 
The pedant on his left hand clutch'd him fast, 
In helpless infants' tears he dipp'd his right, 
Baptiz'd him eu, and kick'd him from his sight. 



VERSES TO JOHN RANKINE. 

AifE day, as Death, that grusome carle, 
Was driving to the tither warl' 
A mixtie-maxtie, motlej' squad. 
And mony a guilt-bespotted lad — 
Black gowns of each denomination, 
And thieves of et-ery rank and station, 
From him that wears the star and garter, 
,To him that wintles in a halter : 
Asham'd himsel' to see the wretches, 
He mutters. glo\yrin' at the bitches, 
*' By G — , I'll not be seen behint them. 
Nor 'mang the sp'ritual core present them, 
"Without, at least, aue honest man. 
To grace this d— 'd infernal clan." 
By Adamhill a glance he threw, 
" L— d God ! " quoth he, " I have it now. 
There's just the man I want, i'faith ! " 
And quickly stoppit Rankine's breath. 



816 BTJKNS'S POETICAI, WORKS. 

ON SENSIBILITY. 

XO MY DEAB AND MUCH-HOKOUEED FKIEKD, MBS. DUSIXIV, 

OF DUNLOP. 

Sensibility how charming, 

Thou, my friend, can truly tell ; 
But distress with horrors arming, 

Thou hast also known too well 1 

Fairest flower, behold the lil}', 

Blooming in the sunny my : 
Let the blast sweep o'er tlie valley, 

Se3 it prostrate on the cla3\ 

Hear the woodlark charm the forest, 

Telling o'er his little joys ; 
Hapless bird ! a prey the surest, 

To each pirate of the skies. 

Dearly bought, the hidden treasure. 

Finer feelings can bestow ; 
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure, 

Thrill the deepest notes of woe. 



SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE ON^KR BENEPI* 

NIGHT. 

Still anxious to secure your partial fr^vour, 

And not less anxious, sure, this night than ever, 

A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 

'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better j 

So sought a poot, roosted near the skies, 

Told him I came to feast my curious ej-es; 

Said, nothing like his works was ever printed ; 

And last, my Prologue-business slily hinted. 

" Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of rhymes, 

" I know your bent — these are no laughing times : 

Can you — but Miss, I own I have my fears — • 

Dissolve in sighs — and sentimental tears, 

With laden breath and solemn rounded sentence. 

Rouse from his sluggish slumbers fell Repentance ; 

Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand. 

Waving on high the desolating brai?d, 

Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land ? " 

I could no more — askance the creature eyeing, 

D'ye think, said I, this face was made fcr crying ? 

I'll laugh, that's poz — nay more, the world shall knowifcj 

And so, your servant, gloomy Master Poet ! 

Firm as my creed. Sirs, 'tis my fixed belief, 

That misery's another word for grief; 

I also think — so may I be a bride ! — 

That ao much laughter, so much life enjoy'd. _ 



lu cuLoius. 317 

Thofi rn.in of crazy care and ceaseless sigli, 
Still uiidfn- bleak Misfortune's blasrlng nye ; 
Dooin'd to that sorest task of man alive — 
To make throe guineas do the work of five ; 
Laugli m Misfortune's face — the beldam witcli ! — ■ 
Say you'll be merry, the' you can't be rich. 

Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, 
Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove ; 
Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, 
Mcasur'st in desperate thought — a rope— thy neck— 
Or, where the l)cetling clift" o'crhangs the deep, 
Peercst to meditate the healing leap : 
Would'st thou be cur'd, thou silly, moping elf ! 
Laugh at her follies — laugh e'en at thyself: 
Learn to despise those frowns, now so terrific, 
And love a kinder — that's your grand specific. 

To sum up all, be merry, I advise ; 

And as we're merry, may we still be wise. 



I'll Clilnris 

*Tis Friendship's pledge, my young fair friend^ 

Nor thou the gift refuse, 
Kor with nnv/illing ear attend 

The moralising muse. 

Since thou, in all thy youth and charms, 

Must bid the world adieu, 
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms) 

To ioin the friendly few. 

Since thy gay morn of life's o'ercast, 

Chill came the tempest's lower ; 
(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 

Did nip a fairer flower.) 

Since life's gay scenes must charm no ifior% 

Still much is left behind ; 
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store — 

The comforts of the mind ! 

Thine is the self-approving glow, 

On conscious honour's part ; 
And, dearest gift of heaven below. 

Thine faiendship's truest heart. 

The joy's refined of sense and taste, 

With every muse to rove : 
And doubly were the poet blest. 

These joys could he improve. 

208 



yi8 BUE^s's poetical wokks. 

ON CEOWNISiG HIS BUST AT EDNAM, EOXBUEGH- 
SHIKE, WITH BATS. 

While virgin spring, by Eden's flood, 

Unfolds her tender mantle green, 
Or pranks tlie sod in frolic mood, 

Or tunes Eolian strains between : 

While Summer, with a matron grace.' 
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, 

Yet oft dehghted, stops to trace 
The progress of the spiky blade : 

Wliile Autumn, benefactor kind, 

By Tweed erects his aged head, 
And sees with self-approving mind, 

Each creature on his bounty fedi 

While maniac Winter ra^jes o'er 

The hills whence classic Yarrow fioTTS, 

Housing the turl:)id torrent's roar, 
Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows j 

So loner, sweet Poet of the year ! 

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won; 
Wliile Scotia, with exulting tear, 

Proclaims that Thomson was her son. 



BALLADS ON MP. HERON'S ELECTIONa 
[ballad pirst.] 

Whom you will send to London town, 

To Parliament and a' that ? 
Or wha in a' the country round 
The best deserves to fa' that ? 
For a' that, and a' that. 
Thro' Galloway and a' that ; 
Where is the laird or belted knight 
That best deserves to fa' that ? 

Wha sees Kerronghtree's open yctt, 

And wha is't never saw that ? 
Wha ever wi' Kerroughtree met 
And has a doubt of a' that ? 
For a' that, and a' that, 
Here's Heron yet, for a' that I 
The independent patriot, 
The honest man and a' that. 



TJIE ELECTION. 819 



Tho wit and worth in either sex, 
St. IMary's Isle can shaw tliat; 
Wi' dukes and Lords let Selkirk mix, 
And weel does Selkirk fa' that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 
Here's Heron j'et, for a' that ! 
The independent commoner 
Shall be the imm for a' that. 

But wh}' should we to nobles jouk ? 

And is't against the law that ? 
For whj"-, a lord may be a gouk, 
Wi' ribbon, star, and a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that. 
Here's Heron yet for a' that ! 
A lord may be a lousj' loon, 
Wi' ribbon, star, and a' that, 

A beardless boy comes o'er the hills, 

Wi' uncle's purse and a' that ; 
But we'll hae aue frae 'mang oursels, 
A man we ken, and a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 
Here's Heron j'et for a' that ! 
For we're not to be bought and sold 
Like naigs and nowt, and a' that 

Then let us drink the Stewartry, 

Kerroughtree's laird, and a' that. 
Our representative to be. 

For weel he's worthy a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 
Here's Heron yet, lor a' that ! 
A House of Commons such as he, 
They would be blest that saw that. 



[ballad second.] 

Ft, let us a' to Kircudbright, 

For there will l>e bickerin' there ; 
For Murray's light-horse are to mugter, 

And oh, how the heroes will swear ! 
And there will be MuiTay commander. 

And Gordon the battle to win ; 
Like brothers they'll stand by each other^ 

Sae knit in aUiance an' sin. 

And there will be black-lippit Johnnie, 
The tongue o' the trump to them a* ; 

An' he get na hell for his haddin' 
The deil gets na justice ava' ; 



BUKNS S POETICAL WORKS. 

And there will be Kempleton's birkie, 
A boy no sae black at the bane, 

But, as for his fine nabob fortune, 
We'll e'en let the subject alane. 

And there will be Wigton's new sheriflf; 

Dame Justice fu' brawlie has sped. 
She's gotten the heart of a Busl)y, 

But, Lord, what's become of the head P 
And there wiU be Cardoncss, Esquire, 

Sae mighty in Cardoness' eyes ; 
A wight that will weather damnation, 

For the devil the prey will despise. 

And there will be Douglases doughty, 

New christ'ning towns far and nearj 
Abjuring their democrat doings, 

By kissing the — o' a peer ; 
And there will be Kenmure sae gen'rous, 

Whose honour is proof to the storm. 
To save them from stark reprobation, 

He lent, then, his na^e to the firm. 

But we winna mention Redcastle, 

The body, e'en let him escape ! 
He'd venture the gallows for siller, 

An' 'twere na the cost o' the rape. 
And where is our king's lord lieutenant, 

Sae fam'd for his gratefu' return ? 
The billie is getting his questions, 

To say in St. Stephen's the morn. 

And there will be lads o' the gospel, 

Muirhead, wha's as good as he's true ; 
And there will be Buittle's apostle, 

Wha's more o' the black than the blue ; 
And there wiU be folk from St. Mary's, 

A house o' great merit and note. 
The deil aue but honours them highly— 

The deil ane wiU gi'e him his vote. 

And there will be healthy .young Eicharu, 

Dame Fortune sliould hing by the neck, 
For prodigal, thriftless, ])estowing. 

His merit had won him respect : 
And there will be rich brother nabobs, 

Tho' nabobs yet men of the first, 
And there will be CoUieston's whiskers, 

And Quintin, o' lads not the warst. 

And there will be stamp-ofiice Johnnie, 
Tak tent how you purchase a dram; 

And there will be gay Cassencarrie, 
And there will be gleg Colonel Tam. 



AN EXCELLENT NEW SONe, 321 

And there will be trusty Kerroughtre^ 

Whose honour was ever his law, 
If the virtues were packed in a parcel, 

His worth might be sample for a'. 

And can we forget the old major, 

Wha'll ne'er be forgot in the Greys, 
Our flatt'ry we'll keep for some other, 

Him only 'tis justice to praise. 
And there will be maiden Killierran, 

And also Barskimmiug's guid knie-h^ 
And there will be roariu' Birtwhistle, 

Wha, luckily, roars in the right. 

And there frae the Niddesdale borders, 

Will mingle the Maxwells in droves ; 
Teugh Johnnie, stanch Geordie, and Walia 

That griens for the fishes and loaves ; 
And there will be Logan Mac Douall, 

Sculdudd'ry and he will be there, 
And also the wild Scot of Galloway, 

Sodgerin' gunpowder Blair. 

Then hey the chase interest o' BroughtoB, 

And hey for the blessings 'twill bring ! 
It may send Balmaghie to the Commons, 

In Sodom "twould make him a king ; 
And hey for the sanctified ^Murray, 

Our land who wi' chapels has stor'd ; 
He founder'd his horse among harlots, 

But gied the auld naig to the Lord. 



[ballad iniED.] 

Ill iBxulimi Urin |nng, 

Tune — Bui/ Iroom besoms, 
Wha will buy my troggiu. 

Fine election ware ; 
Broken trade o' Broughton, 
A' in high repair. 

Buy braw troggin, 

Frae the banks o' Dee; 
Who wants troggin 
Let him come to me. 

There's a noble Earl's 

Fame and liigh renown, 
For an auld saug — 

It's thought the gudeswere strown^ 
Buy braw troggin, &c. 

21 



BUENS S POETICAL WOKKB. 

Here's tlie wortli of Broughton, 

In a needle's e'e : 
Here's a reputation 

Tint by Bahnagliie, 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here's an lionest conscience 

Might a prince adorn ; 
Frae the downs o' Tinwald— 

So was never worn. 

Buy braw troggin, &c 

Here its stuff and lining, 
' Cardoness's head; 
Fine for a so/^"-- 
'*'*». ^- lead. 

-<' braw troggin, Sx, 

-a- .„ iitue wadset 

Buittle's scrap o' truth, 
Pawn'd in a gin shop 

Quenching holy drouth. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here's armorial bearings, 

Frae the manse o' Urr ; 
The crest an auld crab-apple, 

Rotten at the core. 

Buy braw troggin, &C. 

Here is Satan's picture. 

Like a bizzard gled, 
Pouncing poor Redcastle 

Sprawlin' as a taed. 

Buy braw troggin, &c 

Here's the worth and wisdom 

CoUieston can boast ; 
By a thievish midge 

They had been nearly lost. 

Buy braw troggin, &€♦ 

Here is Mm-ray's fragments 

O' the ten commands ; 
Gifted by black Jock 

To get them aff his hands. 

Buy braw troggin, &0. 

Saw ye e'er sic troggin ? 
If to buy ye're slack, 
Hornie's turnin' chapman — 
He'U buy a' the pack. 

Buy braw troggin 

Frae the banks o' De»i 
Wha' wants troggin 
Let him come to me. 



(11)11 m. 



IDDEESSED TO COLOKEL DE PET8TBP, 
DUMFRIES, 1796. 

My honoured colonel, deep I feel 
Your interest in the poets weal : 
Ah ! now sma' heart ha'e I to speel 

The steep Parnassus, 
S-L'-ovr'ded thus hy bolus pill, 

Ar.d potion glasses. 

Oh what a canty warM were it, 

Would pain anl care and sicKuess spare it • 

A-^d fortune favour worth and merit, 

As they deserve'. 
(And aye a rowtli roast beef and claret j 

Syne wiia wad starve ?) 

Dame Life, tho' fi.;tion out may trick her. 
And in pa^te f;enis and frippery deck her; 
Oh ! flickering, fbeble;, ai-.d unsicker, 

I've found her still 
i^ye ^ravering hke ihe w-llow- wicker, 

'Twei^n good and ill. 

T": en that curst cafn)agroie, auld Satan, 
Watches ake baudrons by a rattan, 
Ciu* jinfu' saul to get a ci.vut on 

Wi' 1m'. . v-8 ; 
Syne, whip ! liw tjwl y-i'ii n.^'er cast saut 

He's afF like fire. 

Auld Nick ! auld Nick I it is na fair, 
First shewing us the tempting ware, 
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare. 

To put us daft ; 
Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare 

0' hell's damned waft. 

Poor man, the flie, aft bizzes by, 
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh, 
Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy. 

And hellish pleasiure ; 
Already in thy fancy's eye, 

Thjf sicker treasure ! 

Soon heel's-o'cr-gowdie ! in he gangs, 
And like a shoep-hcad ou a tangs, 
Thy giming laugh enjoys his pangs 

And murd'ring wrestla^ 
As, dangling in the wind, he hangs 

A gibbet's tassel. 



321 BUUNS'S POETICAIi WOIIKS. 

But lest 3'^on think I am uncivil, 

To plague you with tliis draunting drivel. 

Abjuring a' intentions evil, 

I quat' m3^ pen : 
The Lord preserve us a' frae the devil ! 

Amen ! Amen ! 



^nHrrijitinii 

FOR AN ALTAB TO INDEPENDE5CB. 

Thou of an independent mind. 
With soul resolv'd, with soul resign'd; 
Prepar'd Power's proudest frown to brave, 
Who wilt not l)e, nor have a slave ; 
Virtue alone who dost revere. 
Thy own reproach alone dost fear, 
Approach this shrine, and worship here. 



^: dDn tlie Ml\) nf a iFiiiiiiiirto €^\il 

Os sweet be thy sleep in the land of the grave, 

My dear little angel, ibr ever ; 
For ever — oh no ! let not man be a slave ; 

Hi'' hopes from existence to sever. 

Though cold be the clay where thou pillow'st thy head, 

In the dark, silent mansions of sorrow, 
The spring shall return to thy low, narrow bed. 

Like the beam of the day-star to-morrow. 

The flower-stem shall bloom like thy sweet sei'aph form, 

'Ere the spoiler had nipt thee in blossom, 
Wlien thou shrunk'st frae the scowl of the loud winter storm 

And nestled thee close to that bosom. 

Oh stiU I behold thee, all lovely in death, 

Eeclmed on *'■€• lap of thy mother; 
When the tear trickled bright, when the short, stifled breath, 

Told how dear ye were aye to each other. 

My child, thou' art gone to the home of thy rest, 

Where suffering no longer can harm ye, 
Where the songs of the good, where the hymns of the blest, 

Through an endless existence shall charm thee. 

While he, thy fond parent, must sighing sojourn, 

Thiough the dire desert regions of sorrow. 
O'er the hope and misfortune of being to moiirn, 

And sigh for this Ui'e's latest morrow 



IHE EUINED MAir/S LAMENT. o25 

in mi Bliirljdl, 

eOLLECTOE OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES, 176> 

Feiend of tlic Poet, tried and leal, 
Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal ; 
Alack ! alack ! the nieiklc diel 

Wi' a' his witches 
Are at it, skelpin' jig and reel, 

In mj' poor pouches ! 

I modestly fu' fain wad hint it, 
That one pound one, I sairly want it ; 
If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it, 

It would be kind ; 
And while my heart wi' lif-blood daimted- 

I'd be^vr't in mind. 

So may the auld year gang out moaning 
To see the new come laden, groaning, 
Y/i' double plenty o'er the loanin 

To thee and thine ; 
Domestic peace and comforts crowning <•• 

The hale design. 

POSTSCEIPT. 

Ye've heard this while how I've been licket, 
And by fell death was nearly nicket; 
Grim loan ! ye got me by the fecket, 

And sair me sheuk ; 
But oy good luck I lap a wicket. 

And turn'd a neuk. 

But by that health, I've got a shore o't., 
And by that life, I've promised mair o't, 
My hale and weel, I'll tak a care o't, 

A tentier way ; 
Then farewell folly, hide and hair o't. 

For ance and aye ! 



THE RUINED MAID'S LAMENT. 

Oh, meikle do I rue, fause love, 

Oh sairly do I rue. 
That e'er I heard your flattering tongoeu 

That e'er your face I knew. 

Oh ! I ha'e tent my rosy cheeks, 

my waist sae sma' ; 
And I ha'e lost my lightsome heai-t, 
That little wist a fa'. 

2« 



BUENS'S POETICAL W0EK8. 

Now I maun thole the scornfu' sneer 

0' mony a saucy quean ; 
When gin the truth were a' hut.kent, 

Her life's been warse than mine. 

Whene'er my father thinks on me, 

He stares into the wa' ; 
My mither, she has ta'en the bed 

Wi' thinkin' on my fa'. 

Whene'er I hear my father's foot. 
My heart wad burst vn' pain ; 

Wliene'ei I meet my mither's e'e^ 
My tearb rin down like rain. 

Alas ! sae sweei a tree as love 
Sic bitter fruit should bear ! 

Alas ! that e'er a boruie face 
Should draw a sauiy tear ! 
* # * • 



THE DEAN OF THE FACULTY. - 



A NEW BALLAD. 

Dike was the hate at auld Harlaw, 

That Scot to Scot did carry ; 
And dire the discord Lanp;side saw, 

For beauteous hapless Mary : 
But Scot with Scot ne'er met so hot. 

Or were more in fuiy seen, Sir, 
Than 'twixt Hal and Bob for the famcus.jOD-w 

Who shoidd be faculty's Dean, Sir. 

This Hal for genus, wit, and lore, 

Among the first was number'd; 
But pious Bob, 'mid learning's store, 

Commandment ten remember'd. 
Yet simple Bob the victor^'- got. 

And won his heart's desire ; 
Wliich shows that Heaven can boil the po^ 

Though the devil's in the fire. 

Squire Hal besides had in this case 

Pretensions rather brassy, 
For talents to deserve a place 

Ar* qualifications saucy ; 
So tneu' worships of the ''Faculty" 

Quite sick of «ierit's rudeness, 
Chose one who should owe it all, d'ye see. 

To their gratis grace and goodness. 



VEESBa 827 



As once on Pisgali purg'd was the sight 

Of a son of Circmncision, 
So may be, on this Pisgah height, 

Bob's purblind, mental vision : 
Nay, Bobby's mouth may be open'd yet 

Till for eloquence 3'on hail him, 
And swear he has the Angel met 

That met the Ass of Balaam. 



VERSES 

OH THE DESTEUCTION OF THE WOODS NEAR DRUMLAKBI* 

As on the banks o' wandering Nith, 

Ane smiling simmer-morn I strayed, 
And traced its bonnie howcs and haughs, 

Wliere linties sang and lambkms play'd ; 
I sat me down upon a craig 

And drank my fill o' fancy's dream, 
When from the eddying deep below, 

Uprose the genius of the stream. 

Dark, like the frowning rock, his brow. 

And troubled, like his wintry wave, 
And deep, as sighs the boding wind 

Amang his caves, the sigh he gave — 
"And ye came here, my son," he cried, 

" To wander in my birken shade ? 
To muse some favourite Scottish theme. 

Or sing some favom'ite Scottish maid. 

*' There was a time, it's nae lang syne, 

Ye might ha'e seen me in my pride, 
Wlien a' my banks sae hravely saw 

Their woody pictures in my tide ; 
Wlien hanging beech and spreading elm 

Shaded my stream sae clear and cool; 
And statelj' oaks their twisted arms 

Threw broad and dark across the pool ! 

" Wlien glinting, through the trees, appeared 

The wee white cot aboon the mill. 
And peacefu' rose its ingle reek, 

That slowly curled up the hill. 
But now the cot is bare and cauld, 

Its branchy shelter's lost and gane, 
And scarce a stinted birk is left 

To shiver in the blast is lane." 

** Alas !" said I, " what ruefu' chance 
Has twin'd ye o' your stately trees? 



S28 BTJENS'S POETTCAX WOEKS. 

Has laid your rocky bosom bare? 

Has stripp'd the deeding o' your braes ? 
Was it tbe bitter eastern blast, 

That scatters bligbt in early spring ? 
Or was't the wil'tire scorched their boughs, 

Or canker-worm \vi' secret sting ? 

Nae eastlin blast," the sprite rephed : 

"It blew na here sac tierce and fell, 
And on ray dry and whalesome banks 

Nae canker-worms gat leave to dwell} 
Man ! cm el man ! " tlie genius sigh'd — 

As tlirough the cliils lie sank him dowii— 
" The worm that gnaw'd ray bonnie trees, 

That reptile \s'ears a ducal crown." 



i^n ill? ink? nf dliirriislirrr^. 

How shall I sing Drumlanrig's Grace — 
Discarded remnant of a race 

Once great in martial story ? 
His forbears' virtues all contrasted— 
The very name of Douglas blasted — 

His that inverted glory. 

Hate, envy, oft the Douglas bore j 
But he has superadded more, 

And sunk them in contempt ; 
FoUies and crimes have stain'd the name, 
But, Queensberrj', thine the virgin claim, 

From aught that's good exempt. 



VERSES TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ. 
[with a peesexi of books.] 

Oh, could I give thee India's wealtb 

As I this trifle send. 
Because thy joy iu both would be 

To shai"e them with a friend. 

But golden sands did never grace 

The Heliconian stream ; 
Then take what gold could never buy— 

Ah honest Bard's esteem. 



ON LIR. M'MURDO. 

XFBCEIBED ON A PANE OP GLASS IN HIS HOTTBB, 

Blest be M'Miu-do to his latest day ! 
No envious cloud o'ercast his evenmg ray; 



TIBBIE I HA'E seen TUB DAT. 329 

No wrinklo furrowed b}' the hand of care. 
Nor ever sorrow add one silver hair! 
Oh, may no son the fatlier's honour stain. 
Nor ever daughter give tlie mother pain ! 



3iii|irnni{itii k WiWk gtuuiart. 

You're welcome, Wilhe Stewart, 
You're welcome, Willie Stewart, 

There's ne'er a iiower that blooms in May, 
That's half's sae welcome's thou art. 

Come, bumpers high, express your joy, 

The bowl we mann renew it ; 
The tajjpit-hen gae bring her ben, 

To welcome Willie Stewart. 

May foes be Strang, and friends be slack. 

Ilk action uiay he rue it ; 
May woman on him turn her back, 

That wrangs thee, Willie Stewart. 



[with a eeesest ov BOOKS.J 

TnixE be the volumes, Jessy fair, 
And with theni take tlie Poet's praj^er— 
That Fate may in her fairest page, 
With ev'ry kindliest, Ijest presage 
Of future bliss enrol thy name : 
With native worth, and spotless fame, 
And wakelul caution still aware 
Of ill — but chief, man's felon snare ; 
All blameless joys on earth we find. 
Are all the treasures of the mind — 
These be thy guardian and reward; 
So prays thy faithful friend the bard. 

Tune — InvercaulcC s Beel. 

Oh Tibbie, I ha'e seen the day 
Y^e wad na been sae shy ; 

For lack o' gear ye slighted me, 
But, trowth, 1 care na by. 

Yestreen I met you on thij moor, 
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure; 
Ye geek at me because I'm poor. 
But fient a liair care T. 

2Da 



830 BUEKS'S POEllCAL WOSK-S. 

I doubt na, lass, but ye may thinks 
Because ye ha'e the name o'clink, 
That ye can please me at a \viuk, 

Whene'er ye like to try. 
But sorrow tak him that's sae mean, 
Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, 
Wha follows ony saucy quean, 

That looks sae proud and high. 
Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart. 
If that he want the yellow dirt, 
Ye'll cast your head another airt. 

And answer him fu' dry. 
But if he ha'e the name o' gear, 
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier, 
Tho- hardly he, for sense or lear. 

Be better than tlic kye. 
But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice. 
Your daddie's gear maks j^ou sae nice 
The deil a ane wad spier your pric^ 

Were ye as poor as I. 

There Kves a lass m yonder park, 
I would uae gie her in her sark, 
For thee, wi' a' thy thousan' mark ; 
Ye need na look sae hisrh. 



3llnntgumtrif0 frggij. 

Tune — Galla- Water. 
Altho' my bed were in yon muir 

Amang the heather, in my plaidie, 
Yet happy, happy would I be, 

Had I my dear Montgomery's Peggy. 
When o'er the hill boat surly storms, 

And winter nights were dark and rainy, 
I'd seek some deli, and in ray arms 

I'd shelter dear Montgomery's Peggy. 
Were I a baron proud and high, 

And horse and servants waiting ready. 
Then a 'twad gi'e o' joy to me. 

The sharin't with Montgomery's Peggy 



%m[\\ fjggii aiisnu. 

Tune — Bmes o' Balguhidder, 

CHOEUS. 

I'll kiss thee j'ct, yet. 

And I'll kiss the o'er again ; 
And I'll kiss thee, yet, yet, 

My bonuie Peggy Alisouj 



HEKE'S XO thy DEALTU, my bonny T-A.SS- 3.U 

Hk care and fear, when thou art near, 

I never niair defy rhcui, ; 
Young kings upoa their hansel throne 

Are no sac blest as I am, O ! 

When in my arms, \vi' a' thy charms, 

I clasp my countless treasure, 0, 
I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share, 

Than sic a moment's pleasure, 0! 

And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, 

I swear I'm thine for ever, O ! 
And on thy lips I seal my vow, 

And break it shall I never, ! " 



imf 5 ta lljif Ijrnltlj, uiif Iinunfe tm. 

Tune — Laggan Burn, 

Heke's to thy health, my bonnie lass, 

Guid night, and joy be wi' thee; 
I'll come nae mair to thy bower-door. 

To tell thee that I loe thee : 
Oh diuna think, my pretty pink, 

But I can live without tliee ; 
I vow and swear I dinua care 

How lang ye look about ye. 

Thou'rt aye sae free informing me 

Thou hast nae mind to marry, 
I'll be as free informing thee 

Nae time ha'e I to tarry. 
I ken thy fi-ieuds try iika means, 

Frae wedlock to delay thee. 
Depending on some higher chance^ 

But fortune may betray thee. 

I ken they scorn my low estate, 

But that does never grieve me; 
But I'm as free as any he, 

Sma' siller will relieve me. 
I count my health my greatest wealth. 

Sae long as I'll enjoy it ; 
I'll fear nae scant, I'll bode nae want, 

As lang's I get employment. 
But far-off fowls ha'e feathers fair, 

And aye until ye try them, 
Tho' they seem fair, still have a care, 

They may prove worse than I am. 
But at twiht night, when the moon sliincs Tsright 

My dear, I'll come and see thee ; 
For the man that lo'es his mistress weel, 

Nae travel makes him weary. 



^'Vl BUENS'S rOEXICAIi WORKS. 

f nnng pm^ 

Tune — The last time I came o'er the Muir* 

YoTJNG Peggy blooms our bonniest lass, 

Her blush is like the morning, 
The rosj' dawn the siiringing grass 

With earlj' gems adorning ; 
Her eyes outshine the radiant beams 

That gild the passing shower, 
And glitter o'er the crystal streams, 

And cheer each fresh'ning flower. 

Her lips, more than the cherries bright, 

A richer dye has grac'd them ; 
Thoy charm th' admiring gazer's sight. 

And sweetly tempt to taste them : 
Her smile is as the evening mild. 

When feather'd tribes arc courting, 
And Httle lambkins wanton wild, 

In playful bands disporting. 

Were fortune lovely Peggy's foe. 

Such sweetness would relent her, 
As blooming spring unbends the brow 

Of surl}', savage winter. 
Detraction's eye no aim can gain, 

Her winning powers to lessen, 
And fretful Envy grins in vain, 

The poison'd tooth to fasten. 

Ye pow'rs of honour, love, and truth. 

From every ill defend her ; 
Inspire the highly-favour'd youth, 

The destinies intend her : 
Still fan the sweet, connubial flame 

Responsive in each bosom. 
And bless the dear, parental name 

With many a filial blossom. 



JOHN BARLEYCORN. 

A BALLAD. 

Theee were three kings into the east. 
Three kings both great and high. 

And they ha'e sworn a solemn oath 
John Barleycorn should die. 

The took a plough and plough'd Iiim daws^ 

Put clods upon his head ; 
And thoy ha'e sworn a solemn oatk 

John Barleycorn was dead. 



JOHN BAELETCOEir. 333 

Buu the cheerful spring came kindly on. 

And show'rs betjan to tall, 
John Barlej'coni !j:ot up again, 
And sore surpris'd them all. 

The sultry suns of summer came, 

And he grew thick and strong, 
His head wool arni'd wi' pointed spean, 

That no one should him wrong^. 

The sober autumn entered mild, 

When he grew wan and pale ; 
His bending joints and drooping head 

Show'd he began to fail. 

His colour sicken'd more and more, 

He faded into age, 
And then his enemies began 

To show their deadly rage. 

They've ta'en a weapon, long and sharp, 

And cut him b}' the knee; 
They tied him fast upon a cart, 

Like a rogue for forgerie. 

They laid him down upon his back. 

Aid cudgol'd him fiill sore ; 
They hnng him up before the stonnj. 

And tnrn'd him o'er and o'er. 

They filled up a darksome pit 

With water to the brim : 
They heaved in John Barleycorn, 

There let him sink or swim. 

They laid him out upon the floor 

To work him farther woe ; 
And still, as signs of life appear'd, 

They toss'd him to and fro. 

rhey wasted o'er a scorching flame 

The marrow of his bones ; 
But a miller used him warst of all. 

For he crush'd him 'tvveen two stones. 

4jid they ha'e ta'en his vei*y heart's blood 

And drunk it round and round ; 
And still the more and more they drank, 

Their joy did more abound. 

John Barleycorn was a hero bold. 

Of noble enterprise ; 
For if you do Init taste his blood, 

'TwiU make your courage risdi 

*Twill make a man forget his wo€^ 
'l^vill heighten all hisjoy; 



334 Buaxs's poetical v/okss. 

'Twill make tlie widow's heart to sing 
Tho' the tear were in her eye. 

Then let ns toast John Barleycorn, 
Each man a glass in hand, 

And may his great posterity 
Ne'er fail in old Scotland 1 



€\jt Hip u' %'^.r\ni 

Tune — Cot^ Bigs are bonnie 

It was upon a Lammas night, 

When corn rigs are bonnie, 
Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 

I heft awa to Annie : 
The time flew b3' with tentless heed. 

Till 'tween tlie late and early, 
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed 

To see me through the barley. 

The sky was blue, the wind was still. 

The moon was shining clearly ; 
I sat her down wi' right good will - 

Amang the rigs o' barley ; 
I kent b.er heart was a' my ain, 

I lov'd her most sincerely ; 
I kiss'd her owre and owre again, 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

I lock'd her in my fond embrace. 

Her lioart was beating rarely; 
My blessings on that happy place, 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 
But by the moon and stars so bright, 

That shone that hour so clearly, 
She aye shall bless that happy night 

Amang the rigs o' btniey. 

I ha'e been blythe wi' comrades dear, 

I ha'e been merry drinkin' ; 
I ha'e been joyfu', gath'ring gear, 

I ha'e been happy thinkiu' : 
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 

Tho' tln-ee times doubl'd fairly, 
That hctppy night was worth them a* 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 



Corn rigs and barlej' I'igs, 
And corn rigs are bonnie ; ^ 

I'll ne'er forget that happy uigl^ 
Amtmg the rius wi' Annie. 



tfOHTG COMPOSED IN AUGUST. 334 

glju f Inugljinair, 

Tune — Tip xoi the PlougJiman. 

The ploughman he's a bonnie lad, 

His mind is ever true, jo ; 
His garters knit l)elo\v his knee, 
His bonnet it is bhie, jo, 

Then up \vi' my i)loughman lad, 

And hey, my merry ploughman 1 
Of a' the trades tliat I do ken, 
Connnend nie to ^he ploughman. 

My ploughman he comes hamc at e'en, 

He's aftcn wet and weary ; 
Cast aff the wat, put on tlie drj-, 

And gae to bed, my dearie ! 

I will wash my plougliman's hose 

And I will dress his o'orlay ; 
I will mak my plouohuian's bed, 

And cheer him late and early. 

I ha'e been cast, I ha'e been west, 

I ha'e been at St. Johnston ; 
The bonniest sight that e'er I saw 

Was tlie ploughman laddie dancin'. 

Snaw-white stockmgs on his legs, 

And siller buckles glnncin' ; 
A guid blue bonnet on his head— 

And oh, but he was handsome ! 

Commend me to the Ijarn-yard, 

And at the corn-mou, man ; 
I never gat my coggie fou, 

Till I meet wi' the ploughman. 



SONG COMPOSED IN AUGUST. 
Tune — J had a horse, I had nae mair. 

Now westling winds and slaughtering guns 

Bring autumn's pleasant weather; 
The moorcock s])rings, on whirring wing, 

Amang the blooming heather : 
•Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain. 

Delights the weary farmer, 
And the moon shines liright, when I rove at niglll^ 

To muse upon my charmer. 

The patridge loves the fruitful fells. 

The plover loves the mountains ; 
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells, 

The soai ing hern the fountains ; 



^36 BDKNS'S POETICAL WOKKS. 

Tbro' lofty groves tlie cusliat roves, 
The path of man to shun it ; 

The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush. 
The spreading thorn the linnet. 

Thus evl-y kind their pleasure find, 

The savage and the tender, 
Some social join, and leagues combine; 

Some solitary wander : 
Avaunt, away ! the cruel sway, 

Tyrannic man's dominion ; 
The spoi-tman'sjoy, the murd'ring cry 

The flutt'ring gory pinion. 

But Peggy, dear, the ev'ning's clear, 

Thick iiics the skimmii)g swallow ; 
The sky is blue, the tields in view, 

All fading green and yellow ; 
Come, let us stray our gladsome way, 

And view the charms of nature ; 
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn, 

And every happy creature. 

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, 

Till the silent n^oon sliine clearly; 
I'll grasp thy waist, and, i'ondly prest, 

Swear how I love thee dearly : 
Not vernal show'rs to budding llow'rs, 

Not autumn to the farmer, 
So dear can be as thou to me, 

My fair, my lovely charmer ! 



YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS 
TuKE — Yon wild mossi/ Ilountains. 

On wild msssy mountains, sae lofty and wide. 
That nurse in" their bosom the youth o' the Clyde, 
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the heather to feed, 
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his reed. 

Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the heather to feed. 
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his reed. 
Not Gowrie's i-ich vallies, nor Forth's sunny sliores, 
To me ha'e the charms o' yon wild mossy moors; 
For there, by a ianely and sequcster'd stream, 
Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream. 
For there, by a Ianely and sequester'd stream, 
Besides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream. 

Anyang thae wild mountains shall still be my path, • 
Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow strath : 
For there wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove. 
While o'er us unheeded flee the swift hours o' love. 
For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, 
Wliite o'er us unhseded flee the swift hours o' lov€i ^ 



aiY NANNIE, o. S37 

She is not the i'aircst, altlio' she is fair; 

0' nice education, Init sma' is lier share; 

Hor parentage humble as humble can be; 

15ut 1 lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me. 
llcr parontap,-e humble as humble can be : 
But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me. 

To beauty what man but mauu yield him a pi'ize, 

In her armour of glances, licr blushes, and sighs ! 

And when wit and reiiuement ha'e polisli'd her darts, 

They dazzle o\ir eon, as they llec to our hearts. 
When wit and rehncment ha'e pohsh'd her darts, 
They dazzle uur ecu, as they iiee to our hearts. 

liut kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond sparkling e'e, 

Has lustre outshining the diamond to me ; 

And the heart beating love as I'm clasp'd in her arms, 

Oh, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms ! 
And the heart beating love as I'm clasp'd in her arms, 
Oh, these ai'e my lassie's all-conquering charms ! 



Ttjne— ir^ Nannie, O. 

Behind yon hills where Lngar flow^s, 
'Mang moors and mosses many, 0, 

The wintry day the sun has clos'd, 
And I'll awa' to Nannie, 0. 

The vvestlin wind blaws loud and shrill; 

The night's baith mirk and rainy, O; 
But I'll get my plaid, and out I'll steal. 

And owre the hills to Nannie, 0. 

My Nannie's charming, sweet, and young ; 

Nae artiu' wiles to win ye, O : 
May ill befa' tlie flattering tongue 

That wad beguile my Nannie, 0. 

Her face is fair, her heart is true, 
As spotless as she's bonnie, : 

The op'niug gowan, wet wi' dew, 
Nae purer is than Nannie, 0. 

A coimtry lad is my degree, 

And few there be that ken me, 0; 

But what care I how fev/ they be ? 
I'm welcome a;'e to Nannie, 0. 

My riches a's my penny-fee, 
And I maun guide it caiinie, Oj 

But warl's gear ne'er troubles me. 
My thoughts are a' my Nanu.'e, O. 

2 B 



BirENS S POETICAL WOEKS. 

Our old guidman delights to view 
His sheep and kye thrive boimie, 0; 

But I'm as bl3'the that lunids his pleugh. 
And ha'e uae care but Nannie, O. 

Come weal, come woe, I care nae by, 
I'll tak what Heav'n will sen' me, O; 

Nae ither care in life have I, 
But live and love my Nannie, 0. 



GEEEN GROW THE RASHES. 
TuHE — G^^een grow the Bashes. 

CHOEUS, 

Green grow the rashes, 1 
Green grow the rashes, ! 

The sweetest hours that e'er I 
Are spent amang the lasses, O. 

There's nought but care on ev'r^'^ han', 
In every hour that passes, : 

What signifies the life o' man, 
An 'twere na for the lasses, 0. 

The warly race maj' riches chase, 
Aud riches still may ily them, ; 

And tho' at last they catch them fast. 
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, 0. 

iJut gi'e me a canny hour at e'en, 
My arras about my dearie, ; 

And warl'lj^ cares, and warl'ly men. 
May a' gae tapsaltcerie, 0. 

/or you sae douce, ye sneer at this, 
Ye're nought but senseless asses, : 

'rhe wisest man the warl' e'er saw. 
He dearl}' lov'd the lasses, 0. 

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears 
Her noblest work she classes, : 

^er 'prentice han' she tried on man. 
And then she made the lasses, O. J 



THE CURE FOR ALL CARE. - 

Ty¥Z. — Trepare, my ^^ar brethren, to the Tavern lefsjfy, 

Kc Aurchmcn arj I for to rail and to write, 
No '■'Catesrpan jrr joldier to plot or to fight, 
iJc sly man :>f 'iv^'jcss contriving a snare — 
Fot A big-Lidlxeu bottle's tho whole of my care. 



ON CESSNOCK BAKKS. 39 

Tlie peer I don't envy, I give him liis bough; 
I scorn not the peasant, tbo' ever so low; 
But a club of good fellows, like those that are her^ 
And a bottle like tliis, are my glory and care. 

Here passes the squire on his brother — his horse; 
There ( entum per centum, the cit with his purse ; 
But see you The Crown, how it waves in the air I 
There a big-belhed bottle still eases my care. 

The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die ; 
For sweet consolation to church I did fly ; 
I found that old Solomon proved it fair, 
That a big- bellied bottle's a cure for all care. 

I once was persuaded a venture to make ; 
A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck ; — • 
But the pursy old landlord just waddled up stairs, 
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares. 

" Life's cares they are comforts" — a maxim laid down 
By the bard, what dy'e call him, that wore the black gownj 
And, faith, I agree with th' old prig to a hair ; 
For a big-bellied bottle's a heav'n of care. 

ADDED IN A MASON LODGE. 

Then fill up a bumper and make it o'erflow, 
And honours masonic; prepare for to throw ; 
May every true brother of the compass and square 
Have a big-bellied bottle when harass'd with care! 



ON CESSNOCK BANKS. 
Tune — Ifho he a Butcher neat and trim. 

On Cressnock Ijanks there lives a lass, 
Could I describe her shape and mien ; 

The graces of her weel-faur'd face, 
And the glancin' of her sparklin' een I 

She's fresher than the morning dawn 
When rising Phosbus first is seen, 

When dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn ; 
And she's twa glancin', sparklin' een. 

She stately, Hke yon youthful ash. 
That grows the cowsHp braes between, 

And shoots its head above each b'-^h ; 
And she's twa glancin', sparklin' een. 

She's spotless as. the flow'ring thorn, 
Wi' tiow'rs so white, and leaves so green. 

When purest in the dewy morn ; 
And she's twa glancin', sparklin' een. 



340 BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

Her looks are like the sportive lamb. 
When flow'ry May adorus the scene, 

That wantons round its bleating dam ! 
And she's twa glancin', sparkUn' een. 

Her hair is like the curling mist 
That shades the mountain side at e'en, 

Wlien flow'r-reviviiig rains are past; 
And she's twa glancin', sparklin' een. 

Her forehead's like the show'ry bow, 
When shining sunbeams intervene, 

And gild the distant mountain's brow, 
And she's twa glancin', sparklin' een. 

Her voice is like the evening thrush 
That sings in Cessnock banks unseen, 

While his mate sits nestling in the bush; 
And she's twa glancin', sparklin' een. 

Her lips are like the cherries ripe 

That sunny v^'alls from Boreas screen — 

They tempt the taste and charm the sight ; 
And she's twa glancin', sparkhn' een. 

Her teeth are like a flock of sheep, 
With fleeces newly washen clean, 

That slowly mount the rising steep ; 
And she's twa glancin', sparklin' een. 

Her breath is like the fragrant breeze 
That gently stirs the blossom'd bean, 

When Phoebus sinks beneath the seas ; 
And she's twa glancin', sparklin' een. 

But it's not her air, her form, her face, 
Tho' matching ])eauty's fabled queen, 

But the mind that shines in every grace, 
And chiefly in her sparklin' een. 



Tune — The JDcuks dang o'er my Daddy / 

Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair. 

Shall ever be my muse's care ; 

Their titles a' are empty show, 

Gi'e me my Highland lassie, 0. 
Within the glen sae bushy, 0, 
Aboon the plains sae rushy, 0, 
I sit me down wi' right good will. 
To sing my Highland lassie, O. 



POWERS CKLiCaXlAL, 841 

Oh were 3-011 hills and valllcs mine. 
Yon palace and yon garden tine, 
The world then the love should know, 
1 bear my Highland lassie, 0. 

But fickle fortune frowns on me, 
And I maun cross the raging sea ; 
But while mj' crimson currents flow, 
I'll love my Highland lassie, 0. 

Altho' thro' foreign climes I range, 
I know her heart will never change, 
For her bosom burns with honour's gl^ 
My faithful Highland lassie, 0. 

For her I'll dare fhe billows' roar. 
For her I'll trace a distant shore, 
That Indian wealth may lustre throw 
Around my Highland lassie, O. 

She has mj^ heart, she has my hand, 
By sacred truth and honour's band! 
Till the uiortal stroke shall lay me low, 
I'm thine, my Highland lassie, O. 

Farewell the glen sac bushy, O ! 
Farewell the plain sae rushj'-, O I 
To other lands I now must go, 
To siug my Highland lassie, O, 



POWERS CELESTIAL. 
Tune — Blue Bonnets. 

Powers celestial ! whose protection 

Ever guards the virtuous fair, 
While in distant climes I wander. 

Let my Mary bo j-our care : 
Let her fo''m, sae fair and faultless, 

Fair and faultless as your own. 
Let my Mary's kindred spirit 

Draw 3'our choicest influence down. 

Make the gales you waft around her 

Soft and peaceful as her breast, 
Breathing in the breeze that fans her. 

Soothe her bosom into rest. 
Guardian angel ! Oh protect her. 

When in distant lauds I roam •, 
To realms imknown while fate exiles TOAf 

Make her bosom still my home. 



SbS 



342 BTIKKS S POilTlCAL W0BK8, 

FROM THEE, ELIZA. 

Tune — Gilderoy, or Donald, 

Feom thee, Eliza, I must go, 

And from my native shore, 
Tlie cruel Fates between us throw 

A boundless ocean's roar : 
But boimdless oceans, roaring wide. 

Between my love and me. 
They never, never can divide 

My heart and soul from thee! 

Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, 

The maid that I adore, 
A boding voice is in mine dar. 

We part to meet no more 1 
The latest throb that leaves my heart, 

Wliile Death stands victor by, 
That throb, Eliza, is thy part, 

And thine that latest sigh ! 



MENIE. 

Tune — Jolmny's grey BreeTcs, 

Again rejoicing nature sees 

Her robe assume its vernal hues, 
Her leafy locks wave in the Ijreeze, 
All freshly steep'd in morning dews. 
And maun I still on Mcnie doat, 

And bear the scorn that's in her eef 
For it's jet, jet black, andlike ahawk, 
And winna let a bodj' be. 

In vain to me the cowslips blaw, 
In vain to me the vi'lets spring; 

In vain to me, in glen or shaw, 
The mavis and the lintwhite sing. 

The merry ploughboy cheers his team, 
Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks; 

But life to me's a weary dream, 
A dream of ane that never wauks. 

The wanton coot the water skims, 
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, 

The stately swan majestic swims, 
And everything is blest but I. 

The shepherd stocks his faulding slap, 
And owre the moorland whistles shrill; 

Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step, 
I meet him on the dewy hill. 



THE BEADS o' BALLOCUM YLE. 3^ 

And when the lark, 'tween light .and dark, 

Blythe waukens by the daisy's side, 
And mounts and sings on tiittering wings, 

A woe-worn ghaist I hauieward ghde. 

Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, 

And raging bend tlie naked tree : 
Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul, 

When nature all is sad' like me! 



THE FAREWELL. 

TO THE BBETHEEir OV ST. JAMEs's LODGE, TAEBOLTOX, 

Tune — Good Night, and joy he wi you a' .' 

Adieu ! a heart-wai-m, fond adieu ! 

Dear brothers of the mystic tie ! 
Ye favour'^, ye enlighten'd few, 

Companions of my social joy ; 
Tho' I to foreign lands must hie, 

Pursuing Fortune's slipp'ry ba'. 
With melting heart and brimful eye, 

I'll mind you still, though far awa'. 

Oft have I met your social band, 
And spent the cheerful, festive night 

Oft honour'd with supreme command. 
Presided o'er the sons of light; 

And by that hieroglyphic bright, 

^ Which none but craftsmen ever saw ! 

Strong mem'ry on my heart shall vvrit<} 
Those happy scenes when far awa'. 

May freedom, harmony, and love 

Unite you in the grand design. 
Beneath the Omniscient Eye above. 

The Glorious Architect divine ! 
That you may keep th' unerring line. 

Still rising by the plummet's law. 
Till order bright completely shine. 

Shall be my praj-er when far awa'. 

And you, farewell, whose merits claim, 
Justly, that highest badge to wear ! 

Heav'n bless yom- honour'd, noble name^ 
To masonry and Scotia de.'ir: 

A last request permit me here, 
When yearly yo assemble a', 

Que roimd— I ask it with a tear- 
To him— the Bard that's ftir awa*. 



344 BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

THE BEAES 0' BALLOCHMYLB. 

Tvs-E—TJie Braes o' Ballochmyle. 

The Catrine woods were yellow seen, 

The flowers decay'cl on Catrine lea, 
Nae lav'rock sang on liillock green, 

But nature sicken'd on the ee. 
Thro' faded groves INIaria sang, 

Hersel' in hoauty's bloom the while, 
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang, 

Farewecl the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers. 

Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair, 
Ye birdies dumb, in with'ring bowers. 

Again ye'll charm the vocal air. 
But here, alas ! for me nae mair 

Shall birdie charm, or flow'ret smile j 
Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, 

Fareweel, fareweel, sweet Ballochiriyle. 



THE LASS 0' BALLOCHMYLE. 
Tune — Miss 'Forhcss Farewell to Banf 

'T WAS even — the dewy fields were green^ 

On ev'ry blade the pearlies hang, 
The zephyr wanton'd round the bean, 

And bore its fragrant sweets alang : 
In ever}' glen the mavis sang, 

All nature list'ning sccm'd the while, 
Except where greenwood echoes rang 

Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

With careless step I onward stray'd, 

My heart rejoic'd in nature's joy, 
Wlien, musing in a lonely glade, 

A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy; 
Her look was like the morning's ej^e, 

Her air like nature's vernal smile. 
Perfection whisper'd, passing by, 

Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle ! 

Fair is the morn in flow'ry May, 

And sweet is night in autumn mild ,• 
When roving thro' the garden gay. 

Or waud'riug in the lonely wild: 
But woman, Nature's darling child ! 

There all her charms she does compile j 
. Ev'n there her other works are foil'd 

By the bonnie lass of Ballochmyle. 



IHE GLOO.UV NIUUX IS GAXUEKING FAST. 

Oil, had she hoeii a county maid, 

Ami 1 tlie hnppy country swain, 
■ Tho' sholtci'd ill the lowest shed 

That ever I'ose on Scothmd s plain ; 
Thro' weai-y winter's wind and rain, 

With joy, with raj^ture I would toil. 
And nijihtly to my bosom strain 

The honnic la>s o' Ijallochmyle ! 

Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep, 

Where fame and lionours lotty shine ; 
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, 

Or downward seek the Indian mine: 
Give me the cot below the pine, 

To tend tlie Hocks, or till the soil, 
And every day have joys divine 

With the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 



346 



THE GLOOMY NIGHT IS GATHERING FASI 
Tune — Moslin Castle. 

The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, 
Loud roars the wild, inconstant blast; 
Yon murk}' cloud is foul with rain, 
I see it driving o'er the plain ; 
The hunter now has left the moor, 
The scatter'd coveys meet secure ; 
While here I wander, prest with care, 
Along the lonely banks of Ayv. 

The autumn mourns her rip'ning com. 
By early winter's ravage torn ; 
Across her placid, azure skj^. 
She sees the scowlmg tempest fly. 
Chilis my blood to hear it rave : 
I think upon the stormy wave, 
Where many a danger I must dare, 
Far from the bonnie banks of Ajt. 

'T is not the surging billows' roar, 
'T is not that fatal, deadly shore, 
Tho' death in every shape appear, 
The wretched have no more to fear ! 
But round my heart the ties are bound. 
That heart traii«!pierc'd wi' many a wouud. 
These bleed aft-esh, those ties I tear, 
To leave the bonny banks of A.yx. 

Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales. 
Her heatliy moors and winding vales ; 
To scenes wliere wretched ftmcy roves. 
Pursuing past, unhappy loves ! 



S46 



bi;k::»s s poetical wokks. 



Farewell, my friends ! farewell, my foes ! 
My peace with these, my love with those} 
The bursting tears m^ heart declare; 
Farewell the honuie banks of Ayr. 



THE BANKS 0' DOON. 
luH'E— Caledonian Hunt's Delight. 

Ye banks and brpes o' bonnie Doon, 

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ; 
How can ye chant, ye httle birds, 

And I sae weary fu' o' care ? 
Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbhng bird, 

That wanton'st thro' the flow'ring thorn, 
Thou mind'st me o' departed joys. 

Departed — never to return ! 

Aft ha'e I roved by bonnie Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbine twine j 
And ilka bird sang- o' its luve. 

And fondly sae did I o' mine. 
Wi' hghtsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree; 
And my fuse luver stole my rose, 

But, ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. 



THE BIRKS OP ABERFELDY. 

Tune — The Sh'Jcs ofAbergeldy, 

cnoEus. 

Bonnie lassie, will ye go, 
Will ye go, will ye go : 
Bonnie lassie, will ye go, 

To the birks of Aberfeldy? 

Now simmer blinks on flow'ry braes, 
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays. 
Come, let us spend the hghtsome days 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 

The httle birdies blithely sing, 
While o'er their heads the hazels hing. 
Or hghtly flit on wanton wing. 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 

The braes ascend, like lofty wa's. 
The foamy stream, deep-roaring fa's, 
O'erhung wi' fragrant, spreading shawi^ 
The birks of Aberfeldy. 



MACI'IIEKSO.n'S iAlii;\V£LL. 347 

The hoavy cHHs are crown'd \vi' flowers, 
White o'er t'le liiui tlm^huniic pours, 
And rising, weots \vi inisty showers 
The birks of Aberfeldy. 

Let fortune's jrifts at random flee, 
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me, 
Supremely blest with love and thee, 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 



%'m iiiuiT 'l^niiiig ill IHHrrg fit 

Tune — I'm oivre young to mar vy yet, 

I AM my mammy's ae bairn, 

Wi'- unco folk I weary, Sir, 
And if I gang to your house, 

I'm fley'd 'twill make me eerie. Sir. 

I'm owre young to marrj- yet, 
I'm owre young to marry yet; 

I'm owre young — 'twad be a sin 
To take me frae my mammy yet. 

Hallo\nnas is come and gane. 

The nights are lang in winter, Sirj 

And you and I in wedlock's bands, 
In troth, I dare not venture, Sir. 
I'm owre young. &c. 

Fu' loud and shrill the frostj' wind 
Blaws thro' the leafless timmer, Sir; 

But if ye come this gate again, 
I'll aulder be gin simmer, Sir. 
I'm ow3*e young, &c. 



3irf IjrrsDii's ^firtnipll 

Tune — JiT' Fhersons Bant. 

Fauewiile, ye dungeons dark and strong^ 

The wretch's destiuie ; 
Macpherson's time will not be long 

On yonder gallows-tree. 
Sae rantingly, sae wantonlj', 

Sae dauntingly gaed he ; 
He p!ay'd a spring, and danc'd it round. 

Below the gallows-tree 

Oh, what is death, but parting breath P— 

On many a bloody plain 
Tve dai*'d his face, and in this place 

I scorn him yet again ; 



848 i;L"u.N'Ss roiuiCAii \voe,k3. 

Untie the bands from off my hands. 
And bring to me niv sword ; 

And there's no man illPall Scotland, 
BuL I'll brave him at a word. 

I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife; 

I die by treauhei-ie ; 
It burns my heart I must depart 

And not avenged be. 

Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright, 

And all beneath tlie sky ! 
May coward shame distain his name. 

The wretch that dares not die! 



iiiiu laiig mil lmn\ w liiB Sig|t 

How long and dreary is the night 

When I am tVae my dearie ! 
I sleepless lie frao e'en to morn, 

Tho' I were ne'er sae weary. 

Wlien I think on the happy days 

I spent wi' you, my dearie, 
And now what lands between us lie. 

How can I bo but eerie j 

Eow slow ye move, ye heavy hours. 

As ye were wae and weary ! 
It was na sae ye glinted bj-, 
Wlien I was wi' my dearie. 
It was na sae ye glinted by, 
When I was wi' m^' dearie. 



im' K \)u\\\} U Wjm tljat's Hma 

Tune — Sere's a Health to them that's a/wa» 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to them that's awa ; 

And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause, 

May never guid luck be their fa' ! 

It's good to be merr^' and wise, 

It's good to be honest and true, 

It's guid to support Caledonia's cause^ 

And bide by tlie butf and the blue. 

Here's a health to them thaVs awa, 
Here's a health to them that's awa ; 
Here's a health to Charlie, the chief o' the clan, 
Altbo' that his haul be sma'. 



THE HANKS oF THB DETOIT. 349 

May liberty meet with success ! 
May prudence protect her frae evil ! 
May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist, 
And wandor their way to tlie devil ! 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a hedth to them that's awa ; 

Here's a health to Tamnue, the Norland laddie. 

That lives at the luj^ o' the law ; 

Here's freedom to him that wad read ! 

Here's freedom to him that wad write ; 

There's nane ever fear'd that the truth shoUid be heard. 

But they wham the truth wad indite. 

Here's a licalth to tliem that's awa, 

Here's a healtli to them that's awa ; 

Here's Chieftain M'Lood, a Chieftain worth gow'd, 

Tho' bred amang' mountains o' snaw ! 

Here's friends on both sides of the Forth, 

And friends on both sides of the Tweed ; 

And wha wad betray old Albion's rights. 

May they never eat of her bread. 



STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. 

Thickest night, o'erhang my dwelling? 

Howling tempests, o'er me rave! 
Turbid torrents, wintry swelUng, 

StiU surround my lonely cave ! 

Crystal streamlets gently flowing, 
Busy haunts of base mankind, 

Western breezes softly blowing, 
Suit not my distracted mind. 

In the cause of right engaged, 

Wrongs injurious to redress. 
Honour's war we strongly waged. 

But the heavens denied success. 

Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us. 
Not a hope that dare attend : 

The wide world is all before us— 
But a world without a friend. 



THE BANKS OF THE DEVON. 

Tune — Bhannerach dlion na cJiri. 

How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon, 
With green spreacUng buslies and flowers blooming fair I 

But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon 
Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. 

2 B 



850 BITENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

Mild be the sun on this sweet bh\shing flower 

In the gay rosy morn, as it batlies in the devf-j 
Aad gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower. 

That steals on the evening each leaf to renew. 
Oh spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes .. 

With chill hoary wing, as ye usher the dawn; 
And far be tliou distant, thou reptile that seizes 

The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn ! 
Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded Lilies, 

And England, triuinphant, display her proud Roses 
A fairer than either adorns the green vallies, 

Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering Hows. 



BRAVING ANGRY WINTER'S STORMS. 
Tune — Neil Goio' s Lamentation for Ahercairnjf, 

Wheee, braving angry winter's storms, 

The lofty Ochils rise, 
Far in their shade my Peggy's charms 

First blest my wondering ej-es. 

As one, who by some savage stream, 

A lonely gem survey's, 
Astonish'd, doubly marks its beam. 

With art's most polish'd blaze. 

Blest be the wild sequester'd shade, 

And blest the da}' and hour, 
Wliere Peggy's charms I first survey'd, 

When first I felt their pow'r ! 

The tyrant death, with grim control, 

May seize my fleeting breath ; . 
But tearing I'eggy from my soul 

Must be a stronger death. 



mil irggii's jFm. 

Tune — My Feggys Face. 

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's fornsi, 
The frost of hermit age might warm j 
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind. 
Might charm the first of human kind. 
I love my Peggy's angel air,^ _ 
Her face so truly; heavenly fair 
Her native grace, so void of ar^fc 
But I adore my Peggy's lieart, 

The lily's hue, the rose's dye. 
The kindling lustre of an 'aye « 



UIGULANU n.VKllT. ^51 

Who but owns tlicir inagic sway ! 
Who but knows they all decay ! 
The tender thrill, the pitying tear, • 
The gen'rous purpose, nobly dear. 
The gentle look that rage disarms — 
These ai-e all immortal charms. 



Waning Whih iirnnuii Ijn llniumg. 

Tune — Macgregor ofEitara's Lament. 

Raving w-Inds around her blowing, 
Yellow leaves tlie woodlands strowiug. 
By a river hoarsely roaring, 
Isabella stray 'd deploring — ■ 
" Farewell hours that late did measure 
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure; 
Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow, 
Cheerless night that iaiowsno morrow! 

O'er the past too fondly wandering, 
On the hopeless future pondering ; 
Chilly grief my life-blood freezes, 
Fell despair in}^ fancy seizes. 
Life, thou soul of every blessing, 
Load to misery most distressing, 
Gladly how would I resign thee, 
And to dark oljlivion join thee 1 " 



HIGHLAND HARRY. 

My Harry was a gallant gay, 

Fu' stately strode he on the plain, 
But now he's banish'd far away, 
I'll never see him back again. 
Oh for him back again ; 

Oh for him back again ! 
I wad gi'e a' Knockhaspie's laud 
For Highland Harry back 

"VVTien a' the lave gae to their bed, 

I wander dov/ie up the glen : 
I sit me down and greet my fill. 

And aye I wish him back again. 
Oh were some villains hangit high. 

And ilka body had their ain ! 
Then I might see the joyfu' sight, 

My Highland Harry back again. 



BUENS 3 POETICAL WOEKS. 

FUSING OiST THE ROARING OCEAN. 
, Tune — Druimion Dubh. 

Musing on the roaring ocean, 
Which divides my love and me ; 

Wearying Heaven in warm devotion, 
For his weal vs'here'er he be. 

Hope and fear's alternate billoW 
Yielding- late to nature's law, 

Whisp'ring spirits round my pillow 
Talk af him that's far awa. 

Ye vrhom sorrow never womided, 

Ye who never shed a tear, 
Care-untroubled, joj' surrounded, 

Gaudy day to you is dear. 

Gentle night, do thou befriend me ; 
Downy sleep, the curtain draw; 
ipirits kind, again attend me. 
Talk of him that's far awa ! 



BLYTHE WAS SHE. 
TvsiE—Andi'o and Ids Cutty GiiH. 



Blythe, blythe and merry was she 
Blythe was she, butt and ben : 

Blythe by the banks of Ern, 
And blythe in Gleutwrit glen.* 

By Auchtertyre grows the aik, 
On Yarrow banks the birken shaw 

But Phemie was a lionnicr lass 
Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. 

Her looks were like a flower in May 
Her smile was like a simmer mom ; 

She tripped bj' the banks o' Ern, 
As light's a bird upon a thorn. 

Her bonnie face it was as meek 

As ony lamb upon a lea ; 
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet 

As was the blink o' Phemie's ee. 

The Highland hills I've wander'd wide 
And o'er the lowlands I ha'e been ; 

But Phemie was the blythest lass 
That ever trod the dewy green. 



THE ELUDK-KKD aOBB. 

THE GALLANT WEAVER. 

Tune— r/iiJ Weavers' March, 

Wliere Cart rins rovviii' to the sea, 
By moay a ilow 'r and spreading tre^ 
There Uvos a lad, the lad for me, 
He is a gallant weaver. 

Oh, I had wooers aucht or nine, 
They gied me rings and i-ihbons fine ; 
And I was fear'd my heart would tine 
And I gied it to the weaver. 

My daddie sign'd my tochcr-hand, 

To gi'e the lad tliat has the land ; 

But to my heart I'll add my hand. 

And gi'e it to the Vv'eaver. 

Wliile birds rojoice in leafy bowers ; 
While bees deligiit in op'ning flowers ! 
While coi-n grows green in simmer show>'T6, 
I'U love my gallant weaver. 



8fi8 



THE BLUDE-RED ROSE AT YULE MAY BLAW. 

Tune — To daunton me. 

The blude-red rose at Yule may blaw, 
The simmer lilies bloom in suaw, 
The frost may freeze th^ deepest sea ; 
But an auld man shall never daunton me. 

To daunton me, and me so 3'ouug, 
Wi' his fause heart and flatt'vlng tongue, 
That is the thing you ne'er shall see ; 
For au auld man shall never daimton me. 

For a' his meal and a' his maut, 
For a' his fresh beef and his sairt, 
For a' his gold and white monie, 
An auid man shall never daunton me. 

His gear may buy him kj'e and yowes. 

His gear maj^ buy him glens and knowes ; 

But me he shall not l)ny nor fee, • 

For an auld man shall never daunton me 

He hirples twa-fold as he dow, 
Wi' his teethless gab and his auld held pow, 
And the ra'u rains down from his red bleer'd e<V— 
That auld, man shall never daunton me. 

2p3 

23 



354 BURNS S POETICAL WOIllCS. 

TvTS-E—T/ie Bose-hucU 

A KOSE-BUD by my early walk, 

Adown a corn-enclosed bawk, , 

Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, 

All on a dewy morning. 
'Ere twice tlie shades o' dawn are fled. 
In a' its crimson glory spread, 
And drooping rich the dewy liead, 

It scents the early morning. 

Within the bush, her covert nest, 
A httle linnet fondly preat, 
The dew sat chilly on her breast, 

Sae early in the morning. 
She soon shall see her tender brood, 
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, 
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd 

Awake the early morning. 

So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair ! 
On trembling string or vocal air, 
Shall sweetly pay the tender care 

That tends thy early morning. 
So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay, 
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day, 
And bless the parent's evening ray 

That watch'd thy early morning. 



BONNIE CASTLE GORDON. 

Tune — Morag, 

Streams that glide in orient plains. 
Never bound by winter's chains; 

Glowing here on golden sands. 
There commix'd with foulest stains 

Prom Tyranny's empurpled bands; 
These, their richly gleaming waves, 
I leave to tyrants and their slaves ; 
Give me the stream that sweetly lave» 

The banks by Castle-Gordon. 

Spicy fovests, ever gay, 
Shading from the burning ray 

Hapless wretches sold to toil, 
Or the ruthless native's waj'', 
Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil; 
Woods that ever verdant wave, 
I leave the tyrant and the slave : 
Give me the groves that lofty brave 

The storno-s by Castle-Gordon. 



WHEN JANUAU WIND. 355 

Wildly here without control, 
Nature reigus and rules the whole 

In that solter i;cusive mood, 
Dearest to the I'oelins soul. 

She plant.< the forest, pours the flood t 
Lite's uoor da}' I'll nuising rave. 
And find at night a sheltering cave. 
Where waters flow and wild woods wave, 

By bonuie Castle-Gordon 



WHEN JANUAR' WIND. 
Txrs-E—The Lass that made the Bed to Me 

When Jauuar' wind was blawing cauld. 

As to the north I took my way, 
The mirksome night did me iiifauld, 

I knew na where to lodge till day. 

By my good luck a maid I met, 

Just in the middle o' my care ; 
And kindly she did me invite 

To walk into a chamber fair. 

I bow'd f\x' low unto this maid, 

And thank'd her for her coui'tesie, 
I bow'd fu' low uuto this maid, 

Ajid bade her mak a bed to me. 

Slie made the bed baith large and wide, 
Wi' twa white hands she spread it down, 

She put the cup to her rosy lips. 
And di'auk, " Young man, now sleep ye sGtm,* 

She snatch'd the candle in her hand, 
And ft-ae my chamber went wi' speed; 

But I call'd her quickly back again. 
To lay some mair below my head. 

A cod she laid below my head, 

And served me wi' due respect ; 
And to salute her wi' a kiss, 

I put my arms about her neck. 

"Hand aff yoiTt bauds, young man," she s&ja 

"And dinna sae imcivil be : 
If ye ha'e ony love for me, 

Oh wrang na my virginitiet" 

Her hair was like the links o' gowd. 

Her teeth were like the ivorie; 
Her cheeks like lihes dipt in wine. 

The lass that made the bed to me. 



35G 



:'OL</JlCAL UOKKS. 



Her bosom was the driven snaw, 
Twa drifted heaps sae fair to see ; 

Her lips the poHsh'd marble stane, " 
The lass that made the bed to me. 

I kiss'd her owre and owre again, 
And aye she wist ua what to say j 

I laid her 'tween me and the wa' — 
The lassie thought na lang till day. 

Upon the m.orrow when we rose, 
I thank'd her for her couvtesie ; 

But aye she blush'd, and a3'e she sigh'd. 
And said, " Alas ! ye've ruin'd me." 

I clasp'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne, 
While the tear stood twiukUn' in her ee 

I said, " My lassie, dinna cry, 

For ye aye shall mak the bed to me." 

She took her mithcr's Holland sheets. 
And made them a' in sarks to me : 

Blythe and merry may she be, 
The lass that made the bed to me. 

The bonnie lass made the bed to me. 
The braw lass made the bed to me : 

I'll ne'er forget till the day I die, 
The lass that made the bed to me* 



THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER, 
Tune — Morag. 

Loud blaw the fi-osty breezes, 

The snaws the mountains cover ; 
Likg winter on me seizes, 

Since my j'oung Higland rover 

Far wanders nations over. 
Where'er he go, where'er he stray. 

May Heaven be his warden. 
Return him safe to fair Strathspey, 

And bonnie Castle-Gordon ! 

The trees now naked groaning, 
Shall soon wi' leaves be liinging. 

The birdies dowie moaning, 
Shall \' be blythely singing, 
And every flower be springing. 

Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang Ascy, 
When by his mighty warden 

My youth's returned to fair Strathsp^, 
And boimie Castle-Gordon. 



BLOOMING .NELLY. 357 

f.nniiir 5lim. 

Aiu — Te gallants bright. 
Ye gallants bright, I red ye right, 

Beware o' boiinic Ann : 
Her cornel V fa(;e sae t'u' of grace 

Your heart she will trepan. 
Her een sae In-ight, like stars by night, 

Her skin is like the swan ; 
Sae jiniply lac'd her genty waist, 

Tiiat sweetly ye might span. 

Youth, grace, and love attendant movei 

And pleasure leads the van : 
In a' their charms, and conquering ann% 

They wait on bonnie Ann. 
The capti\ e bands may chain the handa^ 

But love cn.^lavts the man; 
Ye gallants braw, I red you a', 

Beware o' bonnie Ann ! 



BLOOMING NELLY. 
Tune — On a Bank of Flowers. 

On a bank of flowers, in a summer day, 

For summer lii^htly drest, 
The youthful blooming Nelly lay. 

With love and sleep opprest : 
Wben Willie, wand'ring through the wood 

Who for her favour oft had sued, 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, be fear'd, he blush'd. 

He trembled where he stood. 

Her closed eyes, like weapons sheath'd. 

Were seal'd in soft repose ; 
Her lips still as she fragrant breath'd 

It richer dy'd the rose. 
The springing lilies sweetly prest, 

Wild — wanton, kiss'd her rival breast; 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd, 

His bosom iU at rest. 

Her robes light waving in the breeze. 

Her tender limbs embrace ; 
Her lovely form, her native ease. 

All hannony and grace : 
Tumultuous tides his pulses roll, 

A faltering, ardent kiss he stole ; 
He gaz'd, he wish'a, he fear'd, he blugh'i — 

AjhI sigh'd his very soul. 



BUKNS S POETICAL WORKS. 

As flies the partridge from the brake, 

Ou fear-inspired wings. 
So Nelly starting, half awake, 

Away affi'ighted springs : 

But Willie followed, as he should, 
He overtook her in the wood ; 

Hevow'd, he pray'd, he found the maici 
Forgiving aU and good. 



MY BONNIE MARY. 

Tune — Go 'Fetch to me a Pint o' Wvm. 

Go fetch to mo a pint o' wine, 

And fill it in a silver tassie ; 
That I may drink, before I go, 

A service to my bonnie lassie ; 
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith, 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry ; 
The ship rides by the Herwick-law, 

And I maun leave ray bonnie Mary. 

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 

The glittering spears are rank-ed ready ; 
The shouts o' war are heard afar, 

The battle closes thick and bloody; 
But it's not the roar o' sea or shore 

Wad make me langer Avish to tarry ; 
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar — 

It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. 



Tune— JBory BalVs Tort. 

Ane fond kiss and then we sever; 
Ane farewell — alas ! for ever ! 
Deep fn heart- wrung tears I'll pledge tliefl^ 
WaiTing sighs and groans I'll wage thea. 
Who shall say that fortune grieves him. 
While the star of hope she leaves him ? 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; 
Dark despair around benights me. 

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy 
Naething could resist my Nancy, 
But to see her was to love her ; 
Love but her, and love for ever. 
Had we never lov'd sae kindly, 
Had we never lov'd sae blindly, 
Never met, or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 



THE LAZY MIST. 

Faretliee wcel, tliou first and fairest! 
Pare thee weel, thou best and dearest . 
Thine be ilka joy and trensure, 
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! 
Ane fond kiss, and then we sever ; 
Ane fare wcel— alas ! i'ov ever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung- tears I'll pledge thee, 
Warrinff sij^hs and trroaus I'll wa'^e thee! 



359 



€\}t .^miliiig ,$|irmg. 

Tune — The Bonnie Bell. 

The smiling Spring comes in rejoicing, 

And surly Winter grimly flies ; 
Now crystal clear are the falling waters, 

And bonnie blue are the sunny skies. 
Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth the miirumg. 

The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell; 
All creatures joy in the sun's returning. 

And 1 rejojce in my bonnie Bell. 

The tlowery S'priug leads sunny summer, 

And yellow Autumn presses near, 
Then in his turn comes gloomy winter. 

Till smiling spring app'.'r. 
Thus seasons dancing, life advancing, 

Old Time and Nature their changes tell, 
But never ranging, still xmchanging, 

I adore my bonnie Bell. 



^\ 



le fauf Blist 

Tune— r/ze Ija::y Mist. 

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill. 
Concealing the course of the dark-winding rill; 
How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear I 
As Autuir.n to Wmter resigns the pale year. 

The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown, 
And all the gay foppery of summer is flown : 
Apart let me wander, apart let me muse, 
How quick tinie is flying, how keen fate pursues ! 

How long I have liv'd — but how much Uy'd in vain 1 
How little of life's scanty span may remain I 
What aspects old Time in his progress has worn ; 
What ties cruel fate in my bosom has torn ! 

How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain'd ! 
And downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, howpain'd ] 
This Ufe's not worth having, with all it can give — 
For something beyond it poor man sure must live! 



360 iJURNS's POETICAL -WCIRKS. 

M K' tlju Iitt0 % Wm]i ran Ham. 

Op a' the airts the wind can blaw, 

I dearly like the west, _ 
For there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lassie I Ic/e best : 
There wild ^voods grow, and rivers row, 

And mony a hill between ; 
But day and night my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' m\' Jean. 

I see her in the dewy flowers, 

1 see licr sweet and fair : 
I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 

I hear her charm the air ; 
There's not a bonnie flower that springs 

By fountain, shaw, or green, 
There's not a bonnie bird that sings, 

But minds me o' my Jean. 

Oh blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saft 

Amang the leafy trees, 
Wi' balmy. gale, frae hill and dale 

Bring hame the laden bees ; 
And bring the lassie back to me 

That's aye sae neat and clean ; 
Ane smile o' her wad banish care, 

Sae charming is my Jean ! 

What sighs and vows amang the knowe»« 

Ha'e passed atwecn us twa ! 
How fond to meet, how wae to part. 

That night she gaed avva ! 
The powers aboon can only ken. 

To whom the heart is seen. 
That nane can be sae dear to rae 

As my sweet lovely Jean. 



^, mm % u f aruassus' fiill 

Tune — My Love is lost to me. 

On, were I on Parnassus' hill! 
Or had of Helicon my fill ; 
That I might catch poetic skill, 

To sing how dear I love thee. 
But Nith maun be my nause's well. 
My muse maim be th}-^ bonnie sel' ! 
On Corsincon I'll glow'r and spell. 

And write how dear I love .thee. 



MY HEART S IN TIIK HIGHLANDS. 361 

Then come, sweet muse, inspire my lay, 
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day 
I couldna sing, I couklua say, 

How mucli, how dear, I love thee. 
I see tliee dancin^j o'er the green, 
Thy waist saejimp, thy limbs sae clisaa 
Thy tempting lips, th}' roguish een— 

By heaven and earth I love thee ! 

B^'' night, by day, a-field, at hamo, 
The tliough'ts o' tlice my In-cast indama; 
And aye I muse and sing thy namo— 

I only live to love thee. 
Tho' I were doom'd to wander on 
Beyond the sea, beyond the sim, 
Till my last wGary sand was run ; 

Till then — and tlieu I love thee. 



Tune — Captuin O'Kean. 

The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning. 

The murm'ring streamlet winds clear thro' the vale ; 
The hawthorn trees blow in the {{qw of the morning. 

And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale : 
But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair, 

Wliile the lingering moments are numbered by care P 
No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing-,. 

Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair. 

The deed that I dared, could it merit their malice, 

A king and a father to place on his throne ? 
His right are these hills, and his right are these vaUies, 

Where the wild beasts lind shelter, ])ut I can tiud none. 
But 'tis not my sufleriugs thus wretched, forlorn ; 

Lly brave gallant friends ! 'tis j'our ruin I mourn I 
Your deeds proved s'o loyal in hot bloody trial — 

Alas ! I can make you no sweeter return ! 



MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. 

Tune — Failte na Misog. 

Mt heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here. 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer j 
Chasing the ^vild deer, and following the roe — ■ 
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, 
The. birth-place of valour, the co'intry of worth; 
Wlterover I wander, wherever I rove, 
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. 

2g 



562 BURNS'S POETICAIi WORKS. 

Farewell to the mountains high covered with snowj 
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below ; 
Farewell to the forests and wild-h:ingii5g woods; 
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here^ 
My heart's in the Highlands a-ehasing the deer: 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe— 
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 



Tune — John Anderson my jo. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

When we were first acquent, 
Your locks were like the raven, 

Your Lonnie brow was brent ; 
But now your brow is bald, John, 

Your locks arc like the snaw ; 
But blessings on your trosty i^ow, 

John Anderson m}- jo, 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither, 
And mony a cancy day, John, 

We've had wi' ane auither. 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hand in hand we'll go 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson my jo. 



TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 
Tune — Death of Captain Cook, 

Thou ling'ring star with less'ning ray, 

That lev "st to greet the early morn, 
Again thou usher'st in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 
Oh Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy pla^c of blissful rest ? 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 

That sacred hour can I forget, 

Can I forget the hallowed grove, 
Where by the winding Ayr we met, 

Ta lire one day of parting love ! 
Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports past ;-• 
TLy image at om- last embrace, 

Ah! little thought we 'twas our last I 



THE DAT RETURNS. 363 

Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore 

O'erhimg with wild woods, thick'ning green, 
fAe fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 

Twin'd am'rous round the raptur'd scene. 
The flow'rs sprang wanton to be prest, 

The birds sang love on every spray — 
Till soon, too soon, the glowing west 

Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. 

Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, 

And fondly broods with miser care! 
Time but th' impression stronger makes, 

As streams their channels deeper wear, 
My Mary, dear departed shade! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast. 



TtTNE — Young Jockey. 
Young Jockey was the blythest lad 

In a' our town or here awa : 
Fu* blythc he whistled at the gaud, 

Fu' lightly danc'd he in the ha'. 
He roosed my een, sa bonnie blue, 

He roosed my waist, sae genty sma'. 
And aye my heart came to my mou' 

When ne'er a body heard or saw. 

My jockey toils upon the plain, 

Thro' wind and weet, through frost and suaw, 
And o'er the lea I leuk fu' fain, 

When Jockey's owsen hameward ca* 
And aye the night come round again. 

When in his arm? he takes me a'. 
And aye he vows he'll be my ain. 

As lang's he has a breath to draw. 



®fe^ gas %AumL 

Tune — Seventh of November. 
The day returns, my bosom burns. 

The blissful day we twa did meet, 
Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd, 

Ne'er summer sun was half sae sweet. 
Thai^a' the pride that loads the tide, 

And crosses o'er the sultry line; 
Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes, 

Heav'n gave me more — it made the© mine. 



864 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS, 

While day and nisjht can bring delight* 

Or nature aught of pleasure give. 
While joys above my mind can raov^ 

For thee, and thee alone, I live. 
When that grim toe of life below 

Comes in between to make us part, 
The iron hand that breaks our band. 

It breaks my bliss — it breaks my heart I 



Tune — Willie Breivd a Feck o' Maui, 

Oh, Willie brew'd a peck o' raaut. 

And Rob and Allan came to pree. 
Three blyther hearts, that lee-laug night. 
Ye wad na find in Christendie, 

We are ua fou', we're no that fou*. 

But just a di'appie in our ee ; 
The cock may craw, the day may daw. 
And aye we'll taste the barley bree. 

Here are we met, tliree merry boys. 
Three merry boys. 1 trow, are we; 

And mony a night vyt merry been. 
And mony mae we hope to be I 

It is the moon, I ken her horn, 
•That's bliiskin' in the life sae high; 

She shines sae bright to wile us hame. 
But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee ! 

Wha first shall rise to gang awa*, 

A cuckold, coward looi. is \j. ! 
Wha last beside his chair shh'.i iV*, 

He is the kmg amang us three I 



I GAED A WAEFU' GATE YESTREEN. 
Tune — The Blue-eyed Lass. 

I GAED a waefu' gate yestreen — 
A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue; 

I gat my death frae twa sweet een, 
Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue. 

*Twas not her golden ringlets bright, ♦ 
Her lips like roses wet wi' dew. 

Her heaving bosom, lily white- 
It was her een sae bonnie blue. 



MY HEART IS A-BRKAKING, DEAR TITTIS. 3C5 

Bb- talk'd, she snul'd, my heart she wil'd. 

She chanu'd my soul — I wist na how ; 
And aye the stoiind, the deadly wound, 

Cam frae her een sae hunnie blue. 
But spare to .--peak, and spare to speed, 

She'll aiblins listen to my vow: 
Should she refuse, I'll lay me dead 

To her twa een sae bonuie blue. 



^^ liaiiks nf Silir. 

Tune — Bobie donna Goracli. 

The Thames flows proudly to the sea, 

Where royal cities stately stand ; 
But sweeter flows the Nith, to me, 

Where Cummins ance had high command; 
Wlien shall I see that honouv'd land, 

That winding stream I love so dear ! 
Must wayward fortune's adverse hand 

For ever, erer keep me here ? 

How level}', Nith, thy fruitful vales, 

Where spreading hawthorns gailj' bloom 1 
How sweetly wind thy slo})ing- dales, 

Where lambkins, wanton thro' the broom . 
Tho' wandering, now, must be my doom, 

Far from thy bonnie banks and braes, 
Mav there my latest hours consume, 

Amaug the friends of early days ! 



MY HEART IS A-BliEAKING, DEAR TITTIB, 

TuwE— TrtOT Glen. 

My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie I 

Some counsel unto me come len'. 
To anger them a' ^^ the pity, 

But what will I do wi' Tarn Glen ? 

I'm thinking wi' sic a braw fellow 

In poortith I might make a fen' ; 
What care I in riches to wallow. 

If I maunna marry Tarn Glen ? 

There's Lowrie, the laird o* Drumeller, 

" Guid day to yon, brute ! " he comes ben; 

He brags and he blaws o' his siller, 

But when will he dance like Tarn Glen ? 

2 o 3 



366 BURXS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

My minnie does constantly deave me. 
And bids me beware of young men ; 

They flatter, she says, to deceive me, 
But wha can think so o' Tarn Glen? 

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him. 
He'll gi'e me guid huiider marks ten; 

But, if it's ordained I maun take him. 
Oh, wha will I get but Tarn Glen ? 

Yestreen at the valentine's dealing. 
My heart to my mou' gaed a sten ; 

For thrice I drew ane without failing. 
And thrice it was written — Tarn Glen. 

The last Halloween I was wauking 
My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken ; 

His likeness cam up the house stauking, 
And the very grey breeks o' Tarn Glen ! 

Come counsel, dear Tittie ! don't tarry— 
I'll gie you my bonnie black lieu, 

Gif ye will advise me to marry 
The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen. 



THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE. 

Tune — Tliere are few guid felloius when Willie's t 

By yon castle wa,' at the close of the day, 

I heard a man sing though his head it was grey; 

And as he was suiging, the tears down came — 

There'll never be peace till Jamie comes harae. 

Thtf church is in ruins, the state is in jars ; 

Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars ; 

We darena weel say't, though we ken wha's to blame 

There'll never be peace till Jauiie comes harae. 

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword. 
And now I greet round their green beds in the yard. 
It brak ihe sweetheart of my faithfu' old dame — 
There'll never be peace tillJarai«- comes hame. 
Now life is a burthen that bows me down. 
Since I tuit my bairns, and he tint his crown ; 
But till my last moments my wor(^s are the same— 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame ! 



Tune— J/y Tocher's the Jewel. 

Oh meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty. 
And meikle thinks my love o' my kin ; 

But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie. 
My tocher's the jewel has charms for him. 



I DO CONFESS TIIOU ART SAK FAIR. 36? 

It's a' for the apple he'll noiirish the tree. 

It's a' for llie himiy he'll cherish the bee. 
My laddie's sae meikle in hive \vi' the siller. 

He canna ha'e luve to spare for me. 
Your proffer c' hive's an arle-penny. 

My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy; 
But an' ye be crafty, I am cuunm', 

Sae ye wi' another your fortune maun try. 
fe're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood, 

Ye're like to tlie Ijark o' yon rotten tree ; 
ife'll slip frae rae like a knotl«ss thread. 

And ye'U crack your credit wi' mae nor me. 



HOW CAN I BE BLYTHE AND GLAD. 

Tune — Tlie Bonnie Lad that's far awa. 

Oh, how can I be blythe and fflad — 

Or how can I gang brisk and braw, 
Wlieu the bonnie lad that I lo'e best 
Is owre the hills and far awa? 

When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best. 
Is owre the hills and far awa ? 

Ifs no the frosty winter wi -id. 

It's no the driving drift and snaw ; 
But aye the tear comes in ray ee, 
To think on hun that's far awa, 
But aye the tear comes in my ee. 
To think on him that's far »w?,. 
My father pat me frae his door. 

My friends they ha'e disowned me •*, 
But I ha'e ane will tak my part. 
The bonnie lad that's far awa. 
But I ha'e ane will tak my part. 
The bonnie lad that's far awa, 

A pair o' gloves he gae to me. 

And silken snoods he gae me twa ; 
And I will wear them for his sake. 
The bonnie lad that's far awa. 

And I will wear them for his sake. 
The bonnie lad that's far awa. 



I DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE FADL 

I DO confess thou art sae fair, 
I wad been owre the lugs in love. 

Had I na found the slightest prayer 
That lips can speak thy heart could move. 



BURNS S POETICAL WORKS. 

I do confess thee sweet, but find 

Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweeta^ 

Thy favours are the silly wind. 
That kisses ilka thing it meets. 

See yonder rose-bud, rich in dew, 

Amang its native briers sae coy; 
How sune it tines its scent and hue 

When pou'd and worn a common toy ! 
Sic fate, ere lang, shall thee betide, 

Tho' thou may gaily bloom awhile ! 
Yet sune thou shalt be thrown aside 

Like ony common weed and vile. 



liiiiting Iniig* 

Tune — I red you heioare at the hunting. 

The heather was blooming, the meadows were mawB^ 
Our lads gaed a-hunting ane day at the dawn, 
Owre moors and owre mosses and mony a glen. 
At length they discovered a bonuie moor hen. 

I red you beware at the hunting, young men ; 
, I red you beware at the hunting, young men ; 

Tak some on the wing, and some as they spring. 

But cannily steal on the bonuie moor hen. 
Sweet brushing the dew from the brown heather bells ; 
Her colours betrayed her on yon mossy fells ; 
Her plumage out-lustred the pride o' the spring. 
And oh ! as she wantoned gay on the wing. 

i red you beware, &c, 

Auld Phoebus hirasel' as he peep'd o'er the hill. 
In spite at her plumage he tried his skill; 
He levelled his rays where she basked on the brae— 
His rays were outshone, and but marked where she l»y. 
I red you beware,. &c. 

They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill ; 
The best o' our lads, wi' the best o' their skill ; 
But still as the fairest she sat in their sight. 
Then, whirr ! she was over, a mile at a flight. 
I red you beware, &c. 



WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE. 
Tone — What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man. 

What can a young lassie, what shall a yoinig lassie. 
What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man ? 

Bad luck to the penny that tempted my minnie 
To sell her poor Jenny for siller and lau ! 



THE BONNIE WEE THING. 369 

Bad luck to the penny that tempted my minnie, 
To sell her poor Jenny for siller and Ian' ! 



He's always compleenm' frae moruin' to e'enin/ 
He hoasts and ho hirples the weary day lang ; 
He's doyl't and he's dozin', his bluid it is frozen, 
Oh, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man ! 
He's doyl't and he's dozin', his bluid it is frozen, 
Oh, dreary's the night xvi' a crazy auld man ! 

He hums and he hankers, he ft-ets and he cankers, 

I never can please hiin, do a' that I can ; 
He's peevish and jealous of a' the young fellows : 
Oh, dool on the day 1 met \vi' an auld man ! 

He's peevish and jealous of a' the young fellows, 
Oh, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man. 

My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, 
I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan ; 
I'll cross him, and wrack him, until 1 heart-break him. 
And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan. 
I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I heart-break him, 
And then his auld brass mU buy me a new pan. 



C 



SJb Snimrt Wn filing. 

Tune — Bonnie tcee tiling. 

Bonnie wee tiling, cannie wee thing, 

Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, 
I wad wear thoc in my bosom, 

Lest my jewel I .should tine. 
Wishfully I look and languish, 

In that bonnie face o' tliiue; 
My heart it stounds wi' anguish. 

Lest my wee thing be na mine. 

Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty. 

In ane constellation shine j 
To adore thee is my duty, 

Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! 
Bvnnie wee thing, cannie wee thing. 
Lovely wee thing, wert thou min« 
i wad wear thee in my bosom, 
l<'6t m} jewel I should tine I 



24 



370 CUKXS'S rOETICAL WORKS. 

TujfE — Miss Mutr. 

HOW shall I, uiiskilfu', try 
The poet's occupation, 

The tuuefu' powers, in happy hour«, 
That whispers inspiration ? 

Even they m?un dare an effort mair 
Than aught they ever <xave us, 

Or they rehearse, in equal verse, 
The channs o' lovely Davics. 

Each eye it cheers, when siie appears, 

Like Phcehus in the morning, 
Wlien past the shower, and ev'ry flower 

The garden is adorning. 
As the wretch looks o'er Siberia's shore, 

When winter-bound the wave is; 
Sae droops our heart when we maun part 

Frae charming lovely Davies. 

Her smile's a gift, frae 'boon the lift. 

That maks us mair than princes ; 
A scepter 'd hand, a king's commaiul, 

Is in her darting glances ; 
The n)an in arms, 'gainst female charms, 

Even he her willing slave is ; 
He hugs his chain, and owns the reign 

Of conquering lovely Davics. 

My muse to dream of such a theme, 
JSer feeble powers surrender ; 

The eagle's gaze alone surveys 
The sun's meridian splendour : 

1 wad in vain essay the strain, 

the deed too daring brave is ; 
I'll drap the Ijtc, and mute admire 
The chai-ms o' lovely Davies. 



OH, FOR ANE-AND-T^VENTY, TAM 

Tune — The Moudieivort. 

cnoEus. 

And oh, for ane-and-twenty, Tam, 
And hey, sweet ane-and-twenty, TaiB^ 

I'll learn my kin a rattlin' sang 
And I saw ane-and twenty, Tarn. 

They snool me sair, and hand me down, 
And gar me look like bluntie, Tam ! 

But three short years will soon wheel roun'^ 
And then conies ane-and-twenty, Tam. 



liKSS AND UEK hl'lM NING-WHEEL. 3?! 

A gleiTj o' Ian', a claiit o' gear, 

Was left me by iny auntie, Tain ; 
At kith or kin I need na*^ sjner, 

An' I saw ane-and-tweuty, Tam- 
They'll lia'e me wed a woaltliy roof, 

Tho' I myscl' lia'e plenty, Tarn ; 
But hear'st thou, laddie— there's my looi— 

I'm thine at aiie-and-twenty, Tam. 



KENMURE'S ON AND AWA. 
Tune — Kenmure's on and awa, TVilii4% 

Oh Kenmure's on and far awa, Willie ! 

Oh Kenmure's on and awa ! 
And Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord, 

That ever Galloway saw. 

Success to Kemnure's band, WiUie! 

Success to Kenmure's band ; 
There's ne'e*- a heart that fears a Whig, 
jut rides b.v Kenmure's hand. 

-■re's Kennnu-e's health in wine; 
Here's Kenmure's health in wine; 
ncre ne'er was a coward o' Kemnure's blude 
Nor yet o' Gordon's line. 

Oh Kenmure's lads are men, Willie ! 

Oh Kemnure's lads are men ; 
Their hearts and swords are metal ferufr— 

And that their faes shall ken. 
They'll live or die wi' fame, Willie! 

They'll live or die wi' fame ; 
But soon, wi' sounding victoria, 

May Kenmure's lord come hame. 

Here's him that's far awa, Willie ! 

Here's him that's far awa ! 
And here's the flower that I love best— 

The rose that's like the snaw ! 



BESS AND HER SPINNING- WHEEU 

TmrB—T/ie sweet lass that lo'es me. 

Oh leeze me on my spinning-wheel, 
Oh leeze me on my rock and reel ; 
Era tap to tae that deeds me bien, 
And haps me flel and warm at e'en! 
And sit me down and sing and spin, 
While laigh descends the simmer sun, 
Blest wi' content, and milk and meal— . 
Oh leeze me on my spinning-wheel !— 



372 



RIJITNS S VOETICAL -WORKS. 

On ilka hand tlie burnies trot, 
And meet below my theekit cot ; 
The sceuted birk and hawthorn whiter 
Across the pole their arms miite. 
Alike to scretni the birdies' nest. 
And little fishes' caller rest : 
The sun bUuks kindly in the biel', 
Where blythe 1 turn my spinning-wheeL 

On lofty aiks the cushats wail, 
And echo cons the doolt'u' tale; 
The hntwhifces in the hazel braes, 
Delightod, rival ither's laj's : ' 
The craik amang the clover hay, 
The paitrick whirrin' o'er the ley, 
The swallow jinkin' round my shiel, 
Amuse me at my spiuniaa--wheeL 

Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, 
Aboon distress, below envj', 
Oh wha wad leave this humble state, 
For a' the pride of a' the great ? 
Amid their flaring, idle toys, 
Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys. 
Can they the peace and pleasure fee* 
Of Bessie at her spinning-wheel ? 



OH, LUVE WILL VENTURE IN. 

TvNU—The Fosie. 

Oh luve will venture in where it daurna well be seen ; 
Oh luve will venture in where wisdom ance has been ; 
But I will down yon river rove, among the woods sae greett 
And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. 

The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year, 
And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear ; 
For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms without a 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view, 
For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bounie mou' ; 
The hyacintn rcr constancy, wi' its unchanging blue— 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The Uly it is pure, and the lily it is fair, 

And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there j 

The daisy's for simplicity, and unaffected air — • 

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 
The hawthorn I will pu' wi' its locks o' siller grey, 
W here, Hke an aged man, it stands at break of day ; 
But the songster's nest within the bush I Annua tak awaj' 

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 



TO SIMMKU, WH(:;X TtllO IIAV WAS MAWM. S7S 

TC S[v.Mi:i; v;i!K>: 'imik hay was mawn. 
Tusk — The Country Lots. 

Ih simmer, when the ha}' was mawn. 

And corn w.iv'd green in ilka field, 
Wliile claver blooms white o'er the lea, 

And roses blaw in ilka bield; 
Biythe IJessio in the milking shiel, 

Says — " I'll be wed, conie o't what will. 
Out spak a dame in wrinkeld eild — 

"0' guid advisement comes uae ill. 

It's ye ha'e wooors mony ane, 

And, lassie, ye're but young, ye kenj 
Then wait a wee, and caiinie wale 

A routhie butt, a routhie ben : 
There's Johnrue o' the Buskie-glen, 

Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byi'e; 
Tak this frae me, my bonnic hen. 

It's plenty feeds the luver's fire.** 

" For Johnnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

I dinna care a single flie ; 
He l»'es sae weel his craps and kye. 

He has nae luve to spare for me : 
But blythe's the blink o' Robie's e'e, 

And, weel I wat, he lo'es me dear : 
Ane blink o' him I wadna gi'e 

For Buskie-glen and a' his gear." 

**0h thonghtless lassie, I-ife's a faught* 

The canniest gate, the strife is sair j 
But aye fou han't is fetchiu best, 

And hungry care's an nnco care : 
But some will spend, and some will spars, 

And \AiIfa' folk maun ha'e their will ; 
Syne as ye brew, rny maiden fair, 

Keep mind that ye maun diina the rilL* 

*' Oh, gear will buy me rigs o' land, 

And gear will buy me sheep and kjej 
But the tender heart o' leesorae luro 

The gowd and siller canua bny ; 
We viMxy be poor — Bobie and I, 

Light is the burden Inve lays on ; 
Content and luve brings peace and joy— 

Wliat mair ha'e queens upon a throne? 



874 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



TURN AGAIN, THOU FAIR ELIZA. 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza, 

Ane kind blink before we part, 
Bue on thy despairing lover ! 

Canst thon l)reak his faithfu' heart f 
Txirn again, thou fair Eliza ; 

If to love thy heart denies. 
For pity hide the cruel sentence 

Under friendship's kind disguise ! 

Thee, dear maid, ha'e I offended? 

The offence is loving thee : 
Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, 

Wha for thine wad gladly die ? 
Wliile the life beats in my bosom, 

Thcu shalt mix in ilka throe ; 
Turn again, thou lovely maiden, 

Ane sweet smile on me bestow. 

ISot the bee upon the blossom, 

In the pride o' snnny no^^n, 
Not the little sporting fairy. 

All beneath the simmer moon* 
Not the poet in the moment 

Fancy lightens on his e'e, 
Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture^. 

That thy presence gi'es to me. 



Tune— T/ic UigJd Men ofMoidart. 
* 
Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, 

The spot they called it Linkura-doddiaf 
WiUie was a wabster guid, 

Cou'd stown a clew wi' ony bodie, 
He had a wife was dour and din. 

Oh Tinkler IVIadgie was her mither. 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wad na gi'e a button for her. 

She has an e'e — she has hut ane. 

The cat has twa the very colour: 
Five rusty teeth, foihye a stump, 

A clapper tongue wad deave a miller; 
A whiskin beard about her mou', 

Her nose and chin they threaten iti 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wadna gi'e a button for her. 



SUCH A PARCEL OF ROGUES IN A NATION. 875 

She's bougli-houcrVtl, she's hein-shinn'd, 

Ane limpin' leg, a hand-breed shorter • 
She's twisted right, she's twisted left 

To balance fair in ilka quarter : 
She has a hump npon her breast, 

The twin o' that upon her shouther, 
Sic a wife as Wilhe had, 

I wad na gi'e a button for her. 

Auld baadrons by the ingle sits, 

And wi' her loof her face a-washin' ; 
But Willie's wife is nae sae trig. 

She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion; 
Her wahe nievcs like midden-creels, 

Her face wad fyle the Logan- Water, 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wad na gi'e a button for her. 



gUCH A PARCEL OP ROGUES IN A NATIOM, 
Tune — Fared ofEogues in a Nation, 

^AKEWEEL to a' our Scottish fame, 

r^^eweel our ancient glory, 
Farewf^' •'ven to the Scottish name, 

Sae famu 1." martial story. 
Now sark rins o t>. the Solvvay sands, 

And Tweed rins to the ocean, 
To mark where England's province standfl^— 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation 1 

What force or guile could not subdao, 

'Thi-o* many warlike ages, 
Is wrought now by a coward few, 

For hireUng traitors' wages. 
The English steel we could disdain, 

Secure in valour's station ; 
But Enghsh gold has been our bane r— 
' Such a parcel of rogues in a nation ! 

Oh would I had not seen the day 

That treason thus could fell us, 
My auld grey head had lien in clay, 

Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace ! ^ 

But pith and power, till my last hoW, 

I'll make this declaration ; 
"We're buugut and sold for English golft-» 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation 1 



876 fiUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

SONG OP DEATH. 

Tune — Ch'an and Diog. 

Seme — A field of battle. — Time of the day, evening. — The 
wounded and dying of the victorious army are supposed 
to join in the following song : — 

Farewell, thou fair da}'-, thou green earth, and ye skies, 

Now gay with the hright setting sun ; 
Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties— 

Our race of existence is run ! 

Thou grim king of ten*ors, thou life's gloomy foe I 

Go, frighten the coward and slave ; 
Go, teach tliem to tremhle, fell tyrant ! hut know. 

No terrors hast thou for the hrave ' 

Thou strik'st the dull peasant — he sinks in the dark, 

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name ; 
Thou strik'st the young hero — a glorious mark ; 

He talis m the blaze of his fame ! 

In the field of proud honour — our swords in our hands. 

Our king and our country to save — 
While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands. 

Oh ! who would not die with the hrave 1 



SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE. 
Tune — She's fair andfause. 

She's fair and fause that causes my smart, 

I lo'ed her meikle and lang ; 
She's broken her vow, she's broken my hear^ 

And I may e'en gae hang. 

A coof cam in wi' i>outh o' gear, 
And I ha'e tint my dearest deivr ; 

But woman is but warld's gear, 
Sae let the bonnie lassie gang. 

Whae'er ye be that woman love, 

To this be never bhnd, 
i^'ae ferlit 'tis tho' fickle she prov«^ 

A woman has't by kind. 



THE LOVET.Y LASS OF li«TEENE88. 



377 



FLOW GENTLY, S\VP:eT AFTON. 

Tune — T^ie yellozo-haired Laddie. 

Flou' gently, sweet Afton, among the green brae», 
Flow gently, I'll sing thco a song in thy praise; 
My JMary's asleep by thy niuvnmring stream. 
Flow geutl}', sweet Alton, disturb not her dream. 

Thou stock -dove, whose echo resounds thro' the glen, 
Ye wild-whistling blackbirds, in yon thorny den, 
Thou groeu-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, 
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 
How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills. 
Far mark'd with the courses of clear winding rills; 
There daily I wander as noon rises high. 
My flocks and m^' Marys sweet cot in my eye. 
How pleasant thy banks and green vallies below ; 
Where wdd in the woodlands the prinu-oses blow; 
There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea, 
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. 
Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, 
And ^I'iuds by the cot whore my IMary resides; 
Ho\^ wanton ihy waters her snowy feet lave, 
As gathering sweet flow 'rets she stems thy clear wave 
Flow gentl3% sweet Afton, among thy gi-een braes. 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my la3^s ! 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmurir-g stream, 
Flow gently,. sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 



THE LOVELY LASS OP DTVERNESS. 
Tune — Lass of Liverness. 

The lovely lass o' Inverness, 

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see : 
For e'en and morn she cries, alas ! 

And aye the saut tear blin's her e'e : 
Drumossie moor — Drumossie day — 

A waefu' day it was to me ! 
For there I lost my father dear. 

My father dear, and brethren three. 
Their winding sheet the bluidy clay, 

Their graves are growing green to see t 
And by them lies the dearest lad 

That ever blest a woman's e'e ! 
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, 

A bluidy man I trow thou be ; 
For mony a heart thou hast made sair, 

That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee, 

2h3 



87d 



BUEA'S S POBTICAL W0KK8. 



A RED, RED ROSE. 

Tune — Graha-iiis Strathspejf. 

Oh, my luve's like a red, red rose 

That's newly sprung in June : 
Oh, my luve's like the melodie, 

That's sweetly play'd in tune. 
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

So deep in luve am I : 
And I will luve thee still, my dear, 

Till a' the seas gang dry. 

Till ft' the seas gang dry, my dear, 

And the rocks melt wi' the sun ; 
I will luve thee still, my dear, 

While the sands o' life shall run. 
And fare thee weel, my only luve ! 

And fare thee weel a while! 
And I will come again, my luve, 

The' it were ten thousand mile. 



LOUIS, WHAT RECK I BY THER 
Tune — Louis, what recJc I by thee. 

Louis, what reck I by thee. 
Or Geordie on his ocean ? 

Dyvor, beggar louns to me — • 
I reign in Jeanie's bosom. 

Let her crown my love her law, 
And in her breast enthrone me i 

Kings and nations — swith, awa ! 
Reif randies, I disown ye ! 



THE EXCISEMAN. 

Tune — The deil cam fiddling through the town* 

The deil cam fiddling through the town, 

And danced awa wi' the Exciseman, 
And ilka wife cries — " Auld Mahoun, 
I wish you luck o' the prize man ! " 
The deil's awa, the deil's awa, 

Thedeil's awa wi' the Exciseman; 
He's danc'd awa, he's danc'd awa , 
He's danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman. 

We'll mak our maut, we'll brew our drink, 
We'll dance and sing, and rejoice, man ; 

And inony braw thanks to the meikle black deil 
That danc'd awa wi' the Kxcisemau. 



I'll aye ca' iv by yon town. 37V 

The deil's awa, tlio deil's awa, 

The deil's awa \vi' the Exciseman : 
He's danc'd awa, he's danc'd awa, 

He's danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman. 

There's threesome reels, there's fom-some reel^ 

There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man ; 
But the ae best dance e'er <tam to the land 
W as— the deil's awa wi' the Exciseman. 
The deil's awa, the deil's awa, 

The deil's awa wi' the Exciseman; 
He's danc'd awa, he's danc'd awa. 
He' dau("d awa wi' the Exciseman. 



SOMEBODY. 

Tune — Fo7^ the sake o' somebody. 

My heart is sair — I dare na tell — 
My heart is sair for somebody ; 
I could wake a winter night 
For the sake o' somebody. 
Oh-oh, for somebody ! 
Oh-hcy, for somebody ! 
I could range the world around, 
For the salve o' somebody ! 

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, 

Oh, sweetly smile on somebody ! 
Frae ilka danger keep him ft-ee. 
And send me safe my somebody. 
Oh-oh, for somebody ! 
Oh-hey, for somebody ! 
I wrad do — what wad I not ! 
For the sake o' somebody ! 



I'LL AYE CA' IN BY YON TOWN. 

Tune — III gae nae mair to yon town. 

I'll ave ca' in by yon town, 

And by yon garden gi-een, again ; 
I'll aye ca' in by yon town. 

And see my bonnie Jean again. 
There's nane sail ken, there's nanesall guess. 

What brings me back the gate again, 
But she, my fairest faithfu' lass, 

And stowUns we sail meet again. 

She'll wander by the aiken tree, 
When trystin-time draws near again ! 

And when her lovely form I see. 
Oh, haith, she's doubly dear again ! 



380 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

m aye ca' in by yon town. 
And by yon garden green again ; 

111 aye ca' in by yon town, 

And see my bonnie Jean again. 



WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE ? 

AiE— r/ic Sutor's DocJiter. 

Wilt tbou be my dearie ? 

When sorrow wrings the gentle heart, 

Wilt thou let me cheer thee ? 

By the treasure of ray soul, 

That's the love I bear thee ! 

I swear and vow that only thou 

Shall ever be my dearie ; 

Only thou, I swear and vow. 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Lassie, say thou lo'es me ; 
Or if thou wilt nae be my ain, 
Say na thou'lt refuse me ; 
If it winna, canna be. 
Thou, for thine may choose me. 
Let me, lassie, quickly die. 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 
Lassie, let me quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 



OH, WAT YE WHA'S m YON TOWN. 
Tune — Tllgae nae mair to yon to/mu 

Oh, wat 3'e wha's in yon to\vn, 

Ye see the e'enin' sun upon ? 
The fairest dame's in you town. 

The e'enin' sun is shining on. 

Now haply down yon gay green sliaw, 
Slie wanders by yon spreading tree ; 

How blest ye flow'rs that round her blaw 
Ye catch the glances o' her e'e ! 

How blest ye birds that round her sing. 
And welcome in the blooming year I 

And doubly welcome be the spring, 
The season to my Liujy deai*. 

The sun blinks blythe on yon town, 
Aiid on yon bonnie braes of Ayr 5 

But my delight is in yon town, 
And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair. 



coiLi) AC{;:iT oi.' SONG. 381 

Without my love, not a' the chamui 

0' Paradise could yield me joy; 
But gi'e ine Lucy in my arms, 

And welcome Lapland's dreary sky 

Mj-^ cave wad be a lover's bower, 

Tho' ra{::ing winter rent the air ; 
And she a lovely little llower. 

That I ,wad tent and shelter there. 

Oil, sweet is slie in ;. on town, 

Yon siukiu' sun's gane down upon; 
A faii'er than's in yon town 

His setting beam ne'er shone upon. 

If angry fate is sworn my foe, 

And suffering I am doom'd to bear; 
I careless quit aught else below, 

But spare me, spare me, Lucy dear ! 

J? or while life's dearest blood is warm, 
Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart^ 

And she — as fairest is her form ! 
She has the truest, kindest heart. 



BUT LATELY SEEN. 
TvsB—The Water of Life. 

But lately seen in gladsome green, 

The woods rejoiced the day ; 
Thro' gentle showers the laughing flowers, 

In double pride were gay ; 
But now our joys are fled 

On winter blasts awa ! 
Yet maiden INIay, in rich array, 

Again shall bring them a'. 

But my white pow, nae kindly thowe 

Shall melt the snaws of age ; 
My trunk of eild, but buss or beUd, 

Sinks in Time's wintry rage. 
Oh ! age has weary days. 

And nights o' sleepless pain ! 
Thou golden time o' youthfu' pnme, 

Why comes thou not again ? 



COULD AUGHT OF SONG. 
TvsfE-^ Could augJit of Song. 

CoTJLr> aught of song declare my pains, 
Could artful numbers mo\e thee, 

The muse snouKl tell, in labour'd straiJiP, 
Oh Mary, how 1 love thee ! 



3S:^ BUU^b"S I'CKTICAL WCKKB. 

Tliej' who but fei2:n a wounded heart 
May teach the lyre to languish ; 

But wliat avails the pride of art, 

When wastes tlie soul with anguish t 

Then let the sudden bursting sigh 

The heart-felt pang discover ; 
And in the keen, yet tender eye, 

Oh read th' imploring lover! 
For well I know thy gentle mind 

Disdains art's gaj' disp;uisins: ; 
Beyond what fancy e'er refin'd, 

The voice of nature prizing;. 



OH, STEER HEB UP. 
Tune — Oh stce^ Jier up, and hated her gcHth 

On steer her up and baud her gaun— 

Her mother's at the mill, Jo ; 
And gif she wiuna take a man. 

E'en let her take her will, Jo; 
First shore her wi' a kindly kiss, 

And ca' another gill, Jo, 
And gif slie tak'c the thing amis3. 

E'en let her flyte her till, Jo. 

Oh steer her up, and be na blate. 

And gif she take it ill, Jo, 
Then lea'e the lassie till her fate, 

And time na longer spill, Jo : 
Ne'er bre^ik your heart for aue rebut*, 

But think upon it still, Jo ; 
Then gif the lassie winna do't, 

Ye'll find anither will, Jo. 



IT WAS A' FOR OUR RIGHTFU' KINO. 

Tune — It was for our rightfu^ king. 

It was a' for our rightfu' king 
We left fair Scotland's strand ; 

It was a' for our rightfu' king 
We e'er saw Irish land. 

My dear : 
We e'er saw Irish land. 

Now a' is done that men can do. 

And a' is done in vain ; 
My love and native land farewell. 

For I maan cross the main. 
My dear ; 

For I maun cross the main. 



OH, -WHA IS SHE THAT LO'ES MB. 383 

He turned him right and round about 

Upon the Irish shore ; 
And Rave his bridle-reins a shake, 

With adieu fur evermore, 
My dear ; 

With adieu for evermore. 

The sodger from the wars returns, 

The sailor Irae the main ; 
But I ha'e parted frae my love, 

Never to meet again, 
My dear ; 

Never to meet again. 

When day is gane, and night is come, 

And a' folk bound to sleep ; 
I think on him that's far awa', 

The lee-lang night and weep, 
]\Iy dear ; 

The lee-lang night and weep. 



OH WHA IS SHE THAT LO'ES MB 

Tune — Mofag. 

On wha is she that lo'es me. 

And has my heart a-keeping ? 
Oh sweet is slie that lo'es me, 
As dews o' simmer weeping, 
In tears the rose-buds steeping ! 
Oh that's the lassie o' my hearty 

My lassie ever dearer ; 
Oh that's the q;ieen o' womankind. 
And ne'er a ane to peer her. 

If thou shalt meet a lassie, 
In grace and beauty charming, 

That e'en thy chosen lassie, 

Erewhile thy breast sae warming, 
Had ne'er sic powers alarming. 

If thou hadst heard her talking, 

And thy attentions plighted, 
Tliat ilka body talking, 

But her b}- thee is slighted, 

And thou art all delighted. 

If thou hast met this fair one ; 

When frae her thou hast parted. 
If every other fair one, 
But her, thou hast deserted, 
And thou art broken-hearted ; 
Oh that's the lassie o' my heart. 

My lassie ever dearer ; 
Oh that's the queen o' womankind. 
And ne'er a ane to peer her 



484 BUBNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

CALEDONIA. 

TuKE — Caledonian Hunfs Delight, 

Theee was once a day — but old Time then was young— 

That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line. 
From some of your northern deities sprung, 

(Who knows not that brave Caledonia's divine?) 
From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain, 

To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would, 
Hor heav'nly relations there fixed her reign. 

And plcdg'd her their godheads to warrant it good. 
A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war, 

The pride of her kindred the heroine grew ; 
Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore, 

" Whoe'er shall provoke thee, th' encounter shall rue! " 
With tillage or pasture at times she would sport. 

To feed her fair flocks by her greou rustling corn ; 
But chiefly the woods were lier fav'rite resort, 

Her darling amusement the hounds and the horn. 

Long quiet she reign'd, till thitherward steers » 

A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand; 
Repeated, successive, for many long years. 

They darkei/d the air, and they plunder'd the land ; 
Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry. 

They conquer'd and ruiu'd a world beside ; 
She took to her hills, and 'her arrows let fl\'- — 

The daring invaders they tied or they died. . 

The fell harp}"- raven took wing from the north, 

The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the shore ; 
The wild Scandinavian boar issued forth 

To wanton in carnage, and wallow in gore ; 
O'er countries and kingdoms their fury prevail' d, 

No arts could appease them, no arms could repel; 
But brave Caledonia iii vain they assail'd. 

As Largs well can witness and Loncartie tell. 

The cameleon-savage disturb'd her repose. 

With tumult, disquiet, rebelhon, and strife; 
Provok'd beyond bearing, at last she arose. 

And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his life : 
The Anglian lion, the terror of Prance, 

Oft prowling, eusanguiu'd the Tweed's silver flood: 
But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance, 

He learned to fear in his own native wood. 

Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and free, 

Her bright course of gloiy ibr ever shall run ; 
For brave Caledonia miii.ortal must be; 

I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun : 
Rectangle-triangle the figure we'll choose. 

The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base; 
But brave Caledonia's the hypotheneuse ; 

Then, ergo, she'll match them, and match them always. 



GLOOMY DECEMBEE. 

OH, LAY THY LOOF IN MINE, LASS, 
Tune — Cordwainer's March. 

Oh, lay thy loof in mine, lass. 
In mine, lass, in mine, lass ; 
And swear on thy white hand, lass. 
That thou wilt he my ain. 

A slave to love's unbounded sway, 
He aft has wrouglit me meikle wae ; 
But now he is my deadly fae, 
Unless thou he my ain. 

There's mon>' a lass has broke my rest. 
That for a blink I ha'e lo'cd best ; 
But thou art queen within my breast, 
For ever to remain. 

Oh, lay thy loof in mine, lass. 
In mine, lass, in mine, lass ; 
And swear on thy right hand, lass 
That thou wilt he my ain. 



ANNA, THY CHARMS. 

Tune — Boymie Mary. 

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire. 

And waste my soul with care ; 
But, ah ! how bootless to admire, 

When fated to despair ! 
Yet in thy presence, lovely fair, 

To hope may be forgiven ; 
For sure 'twere impious to despair, 

So much in sight of Heav'n. 



GLOOMY DECEMBER. 

Tune — Wandering Willie. 

Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December ! 

Ance mair 1 hail thee wi' sorrow and care; 
Sad was the parting thou makes me remember, 

Parting wi' Nancy, oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 

Fond lovers' parting is sweet painful pleasure, 
Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour ; 

But the dire feeling, oh farewell for ever, 
Is anguish unmingl'd and agony pure. 

Wild as the winter now tearing the forest. 
Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown ; 

Such is the tempest has shaken m}' bosom, 
Since my last hope and last comfort is gone. 

25 21 



386 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

Still as I hail thee, thou gloomj' December, 
Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; 

For sad was the parting thou makes me remembw. 
Parting wi' Nancy, oh ! ne'er to meet mair I 



OH MALLY'S MEEK, MALLY'S SWEET. 

Oh, Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, 

Mally's modest and discreet, 
Mally's rare, Mally's feir, 

Mally's every way complete. 

As I was walking' up the street, ' 

A barelit maid I chanc'd to meet j 

But, oh, the road was very hard 
For that fair maiden's tender feet. 

It were mair meet that those fine feet 
Were weel lac'd up in silken shoon. 

And 'twere more fit that she should sit 
Within your chariot gilt aboon. 

Her yellow hair, beyond compare. 

Comes trinkhng down her swan-white neck 

And her two eyes like stars in skies, 
Wad keep a sinking ship frae wreck. 



CASSILLIS' BANKS. 

Now bank and brae are claith'd in green. 

And scatter'd cowslips sweetly spring, 
By Girvan's fairy-haunted stream 

The birdies flit on wanton wing. 
To Cassillis' banks, when e'ening fa's, 

There wi' my Maiy let me flee, 
There catch her ilka glance of love, 

The bounie blink o' Mary's e'e ! 

The child wha boasts o' warld's wealth 

Is aften laird o' meikle care; 
But Mary she is a' my ain — 

Ah ! fortune canna gi'e me mair. 
Then let me range by Cassillis' bank% 

Wi' her, the lassie dear to me, 
And catch her ilka glance of love. 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'el 



THE FETE CHAMPETEE. ggy 

MY LADY'S GOWN, TIIERIC'S GAIRS UPON'T. 

Tune — Gregg's Pipes. 
Mj- lady's gown, there's gairs iipou't, 
And ffowden flowers sae rare upon't ; 
But Jenny Vjimps and jirkinet, 
My lord thinks niickle uaair upon't. 

My lord a-hunting he is gane, 

But hounds or hawks wi' him ai-e nane ; 

By Colin's cottage lies his game, 

If Cohu's Jenny be at liame. 

My lady's white*, my lady's rea, 
And kith and kin o' Cassillis' bluid ; 
But her ten-pun lands o' tocher guid 
Were a' the charms his lordship io'ed. 

Out owre yon niuir, out owre yon moss, 
Whare gor-cocks thro' the heather pass, 
There wons aiild Colin's bonnie lass, 
A lily iu a \nlderucss. 

Sae sweetly move lier gentle limbs. 
Like music notes o' lovers' h}Tnns ; 
Tlie diamond dew is her een sae blue, 
Where laughing love sae wanton svvima. 

My lady's dink, my lady's drest, 
The flower and fancy o' the west ; 
But the lassie that a man lo'es best, 
Oh, that's the !ass to make him blest. 



THE FETE CHAMPETRE. 
Tun e — KillicranTcie. 

Oh wha \vill to St. Stephen's house, 

To do our errands there, man ? 
Oh wha will to St. Stephen's house, 

O' th' merry lads of Ayr, man ? 
Or will we send a man o' law ? 

Or will we send a sodger ? 
Or him wha led o'er Scotland a' 

The meikle Ursa-Major ? 

Come, we will court a noble lord. 

Or buy a score o' lairds, man ? 
For worth and honour pawn their word, 

Their vote shall be Glencaird's, man ? 
Ane gi'es them coin, ane gi'es them wine^ 

Anitlrer gi'es them clatter; 
Anbank, wha guess'd the ladies' taste, 

He gi'es a Fete Champetre. 



388 BURNS's POETICAL 'VfORKS. 

Wlieu Love and Bea\ity lieard the newa. 

The gay green woods amang, man ; 
Where, gath'ring flow'rs and busking how'rs , 

They heard the blackbird's sang, man : 
A vow, they seal'd it with a kiss, 

Sir Politics to fetter. 
As theirs alone, the patent bliss, 

To hold a Fete Champetre. 

Then mounted Mirth, on gleesome wing, 

Owre hill and dale she flew, man ; 
Ilk wimpling Inirn, ilk crystal spring, 

Ilk glen and shaw she knew, man : 
She summon'd every social sprite, 

That sports by wood or water. 
On th' bonnie bank?, of Ayr to meet, 

And keep this Fete Champetre. 

Cauld Boreas, wi' his boisterous crew, 

Were bound to stakes like kye, man ; 
And Cynthia's car, o' silver fu', 

Clamb up the stany sky, man : 
Reflected beams dweU in the streams. 

Or down the current shatter ; 
The western breeze steals through the tH«et 

To yicw this Fete Champetre. 

How many a robe sae gaily floats. 

What sparkling jewels glance, manj 
To Harmony's enchanting notes, 

As moves the mazy dance, mail. 
The echoing wood, the winding flood, 

Like Paradise did glitter*. 
When angels met, at Adam's yett. 

To hold their F6te Champetra. 

When Pohtics came there to mix 

And make his ether-stane, man ; 
He circl'd round the magic ground. 

But entrance found lie nane, man : 
He blushed for shame, he quat his name, 

Foreswore it, every letter, 
Wi' humble ])rayer to join and share 

This festive Fete Champetre. 



THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS. 
Tune- P«s7i ahout the Jorum. 

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat ? 

Then let the loons beware. Sir ; 
There's wooden walls upon our seas, 

And volunteers on shore, Sir. 



V 



on, MKRT THOU IX THE CAULD BLAST. 389 

rbe Nith shall run to Corsicon, 

And CritVol sink in Solway, 
'Ere wo povmit a foreign foe 

On 13ritisli ground to rally ! 
Fal de ral, &c. 

Oh, let us no^ like snarling tykes, 

In wrangling be divided ; 
Till, slap, come in an unco loon, 

And wi' a rung decide it. 
Be Britain still to Britain tr le, 

Among oursels unitod ; ■ 
J'Dr never, but by British hands 

Mami. British wraiigs he righted. 
Fal de ral, &c. 

The kettle o' the kirk and state, 

Perhaps a daut may fail in't ; 
But deil a foreign tinkler loon 

Shall ever ca' a nail in't. 
Our father's bluid the kettle bought 

And wha wad dare to spoil it ; 
By Heaven, the sacrilegious dog 

Shall fuel be to boil it. 

Fal do ral, &c. 

The wretch that wad a tyrant own, 

And the wretch his ti-uo-l>oni brothei, 
Who would ^et tlie wofi aboon tlie tJirone, 

j\Iay they be danniVl together ! 
Who will not sing " God save the King,'* 

Shall hang as higli's the steeple; 
But while we sing, " God save the King," 

We'll ne'er forget tlie People, 
Fal de ral, &c. 



C'H, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST. 
Tune — Lass o' lAvistone. 

Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast 

On yordor lea. on yonder lea. 
My plaidie to the angiy airt, 

I'd shelter thee, Pd shelter thee ; 
Oi* did misfortune's bitter storms 

Around thee iilaw, around thee blaw. 
Thy bield should be my bosom, 

To share it a', to share it a'. 

Or were 1 in the wildest waste, 
Sae black and bare, sae black and bare. 

The desert were a Paradise, 

If thou wert there, if thou wert there. 

Or were I monarch o' the globe, 
Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, 

The brightest jewel in my crovvo. 

Wad l.'o- wy queen, wad be my queen. 2 I 8 



BURNS S POETICAL \Y0KK:S. 

LOVELY POLLY STEWART. 
Tune — TeWe welcome, Charlie Stewari-. 

Oh, lovely Polly Stewart ' 

Oh, charming Polly Stewart i 
There's not a llower that blooms in M^.y 

That's half so fair as thou art. 
The flower it blaws, it fades and fa's, 

And art can ne'er renew it ; • 
But worth and tn;th eternal youth 

Will give to Polly Stewart. 

May he whose arras shall fauld thy charms 

Possess a leal and true heart ; 
To him be given to ken the Heaven 

He grasps in Polly Stewart. 
Oh lovely Polly Stewart ! ■ 

Oh charming Polly Stewart ! 
There's ne'er a flower that Ijlooms in May 

That's half so sweet as thou art. 



YESTREEN I HAD A PINT OF WINK 

Tune — The Banks of Banna. 

Yestreen I had a pint of wine, 

A place where body saw na' ; 
Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine 

The golden locks of Anna. 
The hungry Jew in wilderness 

Rejoicing o'er his manna, 
Was naething to my hinny bliss 

Upon the lips of Anna. 

Ye monarchs talc the east and west, 

Frae Indus to Savannah, 
Gi'e nie within my straining grasp ^ 

The melting form of Anna. 
There I'll dt^pise imperial charms, 

An empress or sultana, 
Wliile d^incT raptures in her arms 

I give and take my Anna. 

Awa, thou flaunting god of day ! 

Awa, thou pale Diana ! 
Dk star gae hide thj' twinkling ray, 

When I'm to meet my Anna. 
Come, in thy raven plumage, night ! 

Sun, moon, and stars withdrawn a*, 
And bring an angel pen to write 

My transports wi' my Anna. 



BONNIE LESLIE. 391 

THE LEA RIG. 

Tune — The Lea Big, 

When o'ei* the hill the eastern star 

Tells bughtiii time is near, my joj 
And owson frac the furrow'd tield, 

Ketiirn sae dowf and weary ; 
Down ])y the burn, where scented birk» 

With dew are hanging clear, my jo, 
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig. 

My ain kind dearie O. 

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, 

I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie 0, 
If thro' that glen I gaed to thee, 

My ain kind dearie O, 
Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild. 

And I were ne'er sae weary 0, 
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig. 

My ain kind dearie 0. 

The hunter lo'cs the morning sun, 

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo; 
At noon tlie fisher seeks the glen. 

Along the burn to steal, my jo. 
Gi'e me the hour of gloamin grey, 

It maks my heart sae cheery O, 
To meet thee on !^he lea-rig. 

My aind kind dearie 0. 



Tune — The Collier's Bonnie Lastly 

Oh, saw ye bonnie Lesley, 
As she gaed owre the border ? 

She's gane, like Alexander, 

To spread her conquests further. 

To see her is to love her. 

And love but her for ever ; 
For Nature made her what she is, 

And never made auither I 

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 
Thy subjects, we, before theej 

Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 
The hearis o' men adore thee. 

The deil he oould na scaith thw. 

Or aught that wad belang- theej 
He'd look into thy bonnie face, 

And say, " I canna wrang the?. ' 



392 BUENS'S P0ET7rA.Ii WORKS. 

The powers aboon will tent thee; 

Misfortiuie sha' na steer thee ; 
Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely, 

That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. 

Return again, fair Lesley, 

Return to Caledouie ! 
That we may brag we ha'e a lass 

There's nane again sac bonnie. 



WILL YE GO TO THE INDIES, MY MARY f 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 

And leave old Scotia's shore ? 
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mar}--, 

Across the Atlantic's roar ? 

Oh, sweet grow the lime and the orange. 

And the apple on the pine : 
But a' the charms o' the Indies 

Can never equal thine. 

I ha'e sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, 
I ha'e sworn by the Heavens to be true j 

And sae may the Heavens forget me, 
When I forget my vow. 

Oh, plight me your faith, my Mary, 
And plight me your lily-white hand; 

Oh, plight me your faith, my Mary, 
Before I leave Scotia's strand. 

We ha'e plighted our troth, my Mary, 

In mutual affection to join ; 
And curst be the cause that shall part us! 

The hour and the moment o' time ! 



MY WIFE'S A WmSOME WEE THINa 

She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome we£ thing. 
She is a bonnie wee thing. 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

I never saw a fairer, 

I never lo'ed a dearer ; 

And neist m}'^ heart Fll wear her, 

For fear ray jewel tine. 

Oh leeze me on, my wee thing, 
Mj-^ bonnie, biythesome, wee thing j 
" Sae lang's I hae my wee thing, 
I'll think my lot divine. 



ATTLD KOB M0KB.I8, 

Tno' warld's care we share o't, 
And uiaj-^ see meikle iiiair o't ; 
Wi' her I'll blythely boar it, 
And ne'er a word repiu* 



Tune — Ka (h erine Ogie, 

Ye banks and braes, and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomcri^ 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfauld her robes, 

And there the langest tarry ; 
For there I took the last fareweel • 

O' my sweet Highland Mar3\ 

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk. 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 
As underneath their fragrant shade, 

I clasp'd her to m}^ bosom ! 
The golden hours, on angel wings. 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me as light and life, 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' mony a vow and lock'd embrace. 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And, pledging aft to meet again. 

We tore oursels asunder ; 
But oh, fell death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early ! 
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, 

That wraps my Highland Mary! 

Oh pale, pale now those rosy lips, 

I aft ha'e kiss'd sae fondly ; 
And clos'd for aye the sparkling glance 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ; 
And mouldering now in silent dust 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 



M\ Unli Blnrris. 

There's auld Rob Morris, that wons in yon g!^ 
He's the king o' guid fellows and wale o' auld men| 
He has goud in his cofters, he has owsen and kine 
And ane bonnie lassie, his d arhng and mine. 



39s EUBNS'S POEXICAL W0KK3. 

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May j 
She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay; 
As blythe and as artless as tlie lambs on the lea, 
And dear to my heart as the light of my e'e. 

But, oh, she's an heiress, anld Eobin's a laird. 

And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard ; 

A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, 

The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead. 

The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane ; 
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane ; 
I wander my lane, like a night-troubled ghaist, 
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast 

Oh had she but been of a lower degree, 
I then might ha'e hop'd she wad smile upon me I 
Oh, liow past describing had then been my bliss, 
As now miy distraction no words can express ! 



iiniraii §xm], 

Duncan Geat came here to woo, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
On blythe Yule night when we were fu* 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
Maggie coost her head fu' high, 
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, 
Gart poor Duncan stand abcigh j 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'dlj 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, 
Grat his een baith bloert and blin', 
Spake o' lowpin' owre a linn ; 

Ha, ha, &c. 

Time and chance are but a tide. 

Ha, ha, &c. 
SHghted love is sair to bide, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he. 
For a haughty hizzie die ? 
She may gae to— to France for me 1 

Ha, ha, &c. 

How it come let doctors tell, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Meg gr^'w ^!ic].:— as he grew heal, 



I'OOUTITll CALLU. &dC 

Soractliiniz; in her bosom wrings, 
For relief a sigh slie briu:.!;.s ; 
And oh, hor een, they speak sic things 
Ha, ha, &c. 

Duncan was a lad o' grace, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Maggie's was a piteous case, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Duncan could na Ije her death. 
Swelling pity snioor'd his wrath ; 
Now they're crousc and canty baith; 

Ha, ha, &c. 



Tune — I had a Horse. 

Oh, poortith cauld, and restless love. 

Ye wreck my peace between yej 
Yet poortith a' I could forgive. 

An 'twere na for my Jeanie. 
Oh why should fate sic pleasure have^ 

Life's dearest bands untwining ? 
Or why sae sweet a flower as love. 

Depend on Fortune's shining ? 

This warld's wealth when I think on. 
Its pride, and a' the lave o't ; 

Fie, fie on silly coward man. 
That he should be the slave o't. 
Oh why, &c. 

Her een sae bonnie blue betray 
How she repays mj'- passion ; 

But prudence is her o'crword aye, 
She talk's of rank and fashion. 
Oh why, &c. 

Oh wha can prudence think upon, 

And sic a lassie by him ? 
Oh wha can prudence think upon. 

And sae in love as I am ? 
Oh wliy, &c. 

How blest the humble cotter's fate! 

He wooes his simple dearie ; 
The silly bogles, wealth and states 

Can lieircv make them eerie. 
Oh why, &c. 



UL'lt.XiJ S rOiiliCAJL, AVOUKa. 

Theke's braw, braw lads ou Yarrow braes. 
That wander thro' the blooming heather; 

But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws, 
Can match the lads o' Gala Water. 

But there is ane, a secret ane, 
Aboon tliem a' I lo'e him better; 

And I'll be his and he'll be mine, 
The bonnie lad o' Gala Water. 

Altho' his daddie was nae laird, 
And tho I hae nae meikle tocher; 

Yet rich in kindness, truest love, 
We'll tent our flocks by Gala water. 

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealtli, 
That cot't contentment, peace, or pleasure 

The bands and bliss o' mutual love. 
Oh, that's the chiefest warld's treasure ! 



iQi'it frfgaq. 



On mirk, mirk is this midnij^ht hour, 
And loud the tempests roar ; 

A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tower, 
Lord Gregory ope thy door. 

An exile frae her father's ha', 

And a' for loving thee ; 
At least some pitii on mo shaw, 

If love it may nabe. 

Lord Gregory, miiid'st thon not the groi 

B,y bonnie Irwiiie side, 
Where first I own'd tliat virgin-love 

I lang, lang had denied ? 

How aften did thou pledge and vow 

Thou wad for aye be mine ; 
And ni}^ fond heart, itscl" sae tiiie, 

It ne'er mistrusted thine. 

Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, 

A-ud flinty is thy breast : 
Thou dart of Heaven that flashest by. 

Oh wilt thou give me rest ? 

Ye mustering thun;lcr8 fi'm;i -above 

Your willing victim see ; 
But spare and pardon my fause loye, 

His wrangs to Heaven and me. 



Tune — Bide ye yet. 

Oh Mary, at thy window be, 

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour ! 
Those smiles and jj^laiices let me see, 

That make the miser's treasure poorf 
How blythely wad I bide the stoure, 

A wearj' slave frae sun to sun, 
Could I the rich reward secure, 

The lovely Mary Morison. 

Yestreen when to the trembling string. 

The dance gaod thro' the lighted ha', 
To th(!e my fancy took its wing, 

I sat, but neither heard nor saw. 
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, 

Aiid yon the toast of a' the town, 
I sigh'd, and said, amang them a' 

" Ye are na Mary jMorison." 

Oh Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 

"VMia for thy sake wad gladly die ? 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

Whf,se only faut is loving thee? 
If love for love thou wilt nagie, 

At least be pity to me shown ; 
A thought ungentle canna be 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 



HJiHikring 'BlWit 



awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Here awa, there awa, baud awa hame; 
Come to my bosom, my ain oul}' dearie, 

Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. 

Winter-winds blew loud and cauld at our parting. 
Fears for my Willie brought tears in ray e'e ; 

Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie, 
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 

Rest, 3'e wild storms, in the cave of your slumber, 
How your dread howlink a \o\ev alarms ! 

Wauken, ye breezes ! row gently, ye billows ! 
And waft my dear laddie ance more to my arms { 

But oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie, 
Flow still between us thou wide-roaring main ! 

May I never see it, may I never trow it. 
But, dying, believe that my Willie's ray ain ! 

2k 



BUENS'S POETICAX WOBEB. 

AlE — The mill, mill O. 

When wild war's deadly blast was blawn 

And gentle peace returning, 
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, 

And mony a widow mourning : 
I left the lines and tented lield. 

Where lang I'd been a lodger. 
My humble knapsack a' my wealth 

A poor but honest sodger. 

A leal, light heart was in my breast, 

My hand unstain'd wi' plunder : 
And for fair Scotin, hanie again, 

I cheery on did wander. 
I thought Tipon the banks o' Coil, 

I thought upon my Nancy ; 
I thought upon the witching smile 

That caught my youthful fancy. 

At length I reach'd the bonnie glen 

Wliere early life I sported ; 
I pass'd the mill, and trysting thorn, 

Where Nancy aft I courted: 
Wlia spied I but my ain dear maid 

Down by her mother's dwelling ! 
And turn'd me round to hide the flood 

That in my een was swelHng. 

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, " Sweet las% 

Sweet as j'on hawthorn's blossom. 
Oh ! happy, happy may he be. 

That's clearest to thy bosom ! 
My purse is hght, I've far to gang, 

And fain would be thy lodger; 
I've served my king and country lang— 

Take pity on a sodger." 

Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me, 

And lovlier was than ever ; 
Quo' she, " A sodger ance I lo'ed, 

Forget him shall I never : 
Our hiimble cot and hamely fare 

Yt treely may partake o't ; 
That gallant badge, the dear cockade^ 

Ye're welcome for the sake o't; 

She gaz'd — she redden'd like a rose- 
Syne pale like ony lily ; 

She sank within my arms, and cried, 
" Art thou my ain dear Willie ? " 



BLYTIIK HAF- I BICKN ON VON HILL. 399 

"By Him who made yon sun and sky; 

By whom true love's regarded, 
I am the man ; atid tims may still 

True lovers be rewarded. 

The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame, 

And find tliec still true-hearted ! 
Iho' poor in gear, we're rich in love, 

And mair we'll ne'er be parted." 
Quo' she, " My grandsire left me gowd, 

A mailen plenish'd fairly ; 
And come, my faithfu' sodger lad, 

Thou'rt welcome to it dearly." 

For gold the merchant ploughs the main. 

The farmer ploughs the manor ; 
But glorj'^ is the sodger's prize. 

The sodger's wealth is honour. 
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise, 

Nor count him as a stranger : 
Remember he's his country's stay 

In day and hour of danger. 



5Bli|l{jB Ija'i 3 hnn nii pit jiiii. 

Tune — Ijiggerum Cosh. 

BliTTHE ha'e I been on yon hill, 

As the lambs before me ; 
Careless ilka thought and fi*ee. 

As the breeze flew o'er me : 
Now nae longer sport and play, 

Mirth or sang can please me ; 
Lesley is sae fair and coy, 

Care and anguish seize me. 

Heavy, heavy is the task. 

Hopeless love declaring : 
TrembHng, I dow nocht glow'r, 

Sighing, dumb, despairing ! 
If she winna ease the thraws 

In my bosom swelling, 
Underneath the grass-green sod. 

Soon maun be my dwelling 



Tune — Logan Water. 

Oh Logan, sweetly didst thou glide 
That day I was my Willie's bride j 
And years sinsyne ha'e o'er us run, 
Like Logan to the simmer sim. 



100 BTTENS S POETICAL WOEKS. 

But now thy flow'iy banks appear 
Like di-umlie winter, dark and drear, 
While ray dear lad m»un face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes. 

Again the merry month o' May 
Has made our hills and vallies gay ; 
The birds rejoice in leafy bowers, 
The bees hum roi'xd the breathing flowew . 
Blythe morning lifts his rosy eye, 
And evening's tears are tears of joy : 
My soul, delightless, a' surveys, 
While Willie's far fi-ae Logan braes. 

Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, 
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush ; 
Her faithfu' mate will share her toil. 
Or wi' his songs her cares beguile : 
But I wi' my sweet nurslings here, 
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer. 
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days, 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 

Oh, wae upon you, men o' state, 
That brethren rouse to deadly hate ! 
As ye make manj^ a fond heart mourn, 
Sae may it on your heads return ! 
How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
The widow's tear, the orphan's cry ? 
But soon may peace bring happ^'- days. 
And WilUe hame to Logan braes. 



dDli, gin mil ^^^^^ ^^^^^ ¥^ ruti %m. 

AiK — S'ugie G-raham. 

Oh, gin my love were yon red rose 
That grows upon the castle wa' ; 

And I mysel' a drap o' dew. 
Into her bonnie breast to fa' ! 

Oh there beyond expression blest, 
I'd feast on beauty a' the night ! 

Seald on her silk-saft faiilds to rest. 
Till fley'd awa by Phoebus' light. 

Oh, were my love yon lilac fair, 
Wi' purple blossoms to the spring. 

And I, a bird to shelter there. 

When wearied on my little wing — 

How I wad mourn, when it was torn 
By autumn wild, and winter rude I 

But I wad sing on wanton wing, 
When vouthfu' Mav its bloom ronew'A 



aOSNlE JEAN. iOl 

BONNIE JEAN. 

Theee was a liiss, mid sho was fair, 

At kirk and market to be seen ; 
Wlien a' tlic fairest maids were met, 

The lairest maid was bonnie Jean. 

And aye she wrought her mammie's wark. 

And aye she sang sae merriHe : 
The blythest bird upon the bush 

Had ne'er a hghter heart than :V.*. 

But hawks will rob the tender joys 

That bless the little lintwhite's nest; 
And frost will bliglit the fairest flowers; 

And love will break the soundest rest. 

Young Robie was the brawest lad, 

The flower and pride of a' the glen ; 
And he had owsen, sheep, and kye 

And wanton naigies nine or ten. 

He gaed wi' Joanie to the tryste. 

He daucM wi' Jeanie on tlie down; 
And lang 'ere witless Jeam'c wist, 

Her heart was tint, bcr peace was stown* 

As in the bosom o' the stream 

The moonbeam dwells at dewy e'en; 
So trembling, pure, was tender love 

Within the breast o' bonnie Jean. 

And now she works her mammie's vvflrk, 

And aye she sighs wi' care and pam ; 
Yet wist na wb.at her ail might be, 

Or what wad mak her weel again. 

But did na Jennj^'s heart loup light, 

And did na joy bhtik in her e'e, 
As Robie toulil a talc oi love 

Ae e'ening on the lily lea? 

The sun was sinking in the u'est. 

The birds sang sweet in ilka grove; 
His cheek to hers he fondly prest. 

And whisper'd thus his tale of love— 

" Oh, Jeany fair, I lo'e thee dear ; 

Oh, canst thou think to fanc}'^ me ? 
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot. 

And learn to teut the farms wi' Ui« ? 

At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge, 

Or naething else to trouble t -.'^^ ; 
But stray amang the hea*iter-bei'«. 

And t<?nt the waring corn wi' m?." 

2G 21$ 



102 



;a!. wokks. 



Now what could artless Jeanie do ? 

She had na will to sa\^ him na ; 
At length she blush'd a sweet consent, 

And love was a3'e between them twa. 



MEG 0' THE MILL. 

Ais — Oh, honnie lass xo'dl you lie in a Barrack t 

Oh, ken ye what Meg o' the IMill has gotten ? 
And ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ? 
She has gotten a c(n^f" wi' a claut o' siller, 
And broken the heart o' the barley miller. 

The miller was strapping the miller was ruddy ; 
A heart like a lord, and a hue like, a lady; 
The laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl ; — 
She's left the guidfellow and ta'en the churl. 

The miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving ; 
The laird did address her wi' matti^r more moving} 
A fine pacing horse, with a clear chained bridle, 
A whip by her side, and a honnie side-saddle. 

Oh wae on the siller it is sae prevailing ; 
And wae on the love that is fixed on a maileii ! 
A tocher's na word in a true lover's parle. 
But gi'e me my love, and a fig for the warl' ! 



OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH! 

On, open the door, some pity to show, 

Oil, open tlie door to me, oh ! 
Though thou hast been false, I'll ever prove ^. 

Oh, open the door to me, oh ! 

Cauld is the blast upon nij' pale cheek. 

But caulder thy love for me, oh ; 
The frost that freezes the life at my heart, 

Is nought to my pains frae thee, oh 1 

The wan moon is setting behind the svhite wave, 

And time is setting with me, oh ; 
False friends, false love, farewell ! for mair 

I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee, oh 1 " 

She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide. 
She sees his pale corse on the plain, oh ! 

" My true love ! " she cried, and sank down by his nd% 
Never to rise again, oh ! 



ADOWN WINDING NITU 1 DID WANDER. 403 

Tune — Bonnie Dundee. 

TEUE-hearted was he, the sad swain o' the Yarrow, 

And fair are the maids oii the banks of the Ayr, 
But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding river, 

Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair : 
To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over, 

To equal 3'oung Jessie you seek it in vain: 
Grace, beauty, and elegance fetter her lover, 

And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. 

Oh, fresh is the rose in the gay dewy morning. 

And sweet is the lily at evening close ; 
But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie, 

U^nseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. 
Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring, 

Euthrou'd in her een he delivers his law ;' 
And still to her charms she alone is a stranger 

Her modest demeanour's tlie jewel of a'. 



ADOWN WINDING NITH I DID WANDER. 
Tune — The Mocking of Geordie's Byre. 

Adown winding Nitli I did wander, 

To mark the sweet ilowevs as they spring; 

Adown winding Nith I did wander, 
Of Phillis to muse and to sing. 



Awa wi' your belles and your beauties. 
They never wi' her can compare ; 

Whaever has met wi' my Phillis, 
Has met wi' the queen o' the fair. 

The daisy ainus'd my fond fancy. 
So artless, so simple, so wild; 

Thou emblem, said I, o' my PhiUis, 
For she is simpUcity's child. 

The rosebud's the blush o' my charmer. 
Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest ; 

How fair and how pure is the lily, ° 
But fairer and purer her breast. 

Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, 
They ne'er with my Phillis can vie ; 

Her breath is the breath of the woodbiM^ 
It's dew-drop o' diamond her eye. 



404 



BUilNS S I'OETICAL WCiUKS. 

Her voice is the song of the morning. 
That wakes thro' the green-spreading grove, 

Wlien Phoebus peeps over the mountains. 
On music, and pleasure, and love. 

But beauty, how frail and how fleeting, 
The bloom of a fine summer's day ! 

While worth in the mind of my Phillia 
Will flourish witliout a decay. 



HAD I A CAVE. 

Tune — Boh in Adair. 

Had I a cave on some wild distant shore, 
Where the winds howl to the waves', dashing roar 

There would I weep my woes, 

There seek my lost repose, 

Till grief my eye^ should close. 
Ne'er to wake more. 

Falsest of womankind ! canst thou declare. 
All thy fond plighted vows, fleeting as air ! 

To thy new lover hie, • 

Laugh o'er thy peijury ; 

Then in thy bosom try 
What peace is there ! 



PHILLIS THE FAIR. 

Tune — JZoMn Adair. 

While larks with the wing 

Fann'd the pure air. 
Tasting the breathing spring. 

Forth I did fare ; 
Gay the sun's golden eye, 
Peep'd o'er the mountains high i 
Such thy morn ! did I cry, 

Philhs the fair. 

In each bird's careless song 

Glad did I share ; 
While yon wild flowers amoi^ 

Chance led me there; 
Sweet to the opening day. 
Rosebuds beut the dewy spray 
Such thy bloom 1 did I say, 

Phillis the fair. 



COME, LET ME TAKE THEE TO .MY BREAST. 406 

Down in a sliady walk, 

Doves cooing were; 
I mark'd the cruel hawk 

Caught in a snare : 
So kind may fortune be, 
Such make liis destiny, 
He who would injure thee, 

Phillis the fair. 



BY ALLAN STREAM I CHANC'D TO ROVE. 
Tune — Allan Water. 

By Allan stream I clianc'd to rove, 

While Pha3bus sank beyond Benleddi ; 
The winds were whisp'ring thro' the grove, 

The yellow corn was waving ready : 
I Hsten'd to a lover's sang, 

And thought on youtlffu' pleasures monj', 
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang — 

Oh, dearly do I love thee, Annie ! 

Oh, happy be the woodbine bower, 

Nae nightl3' bogle make it eerie ; 
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour. 

The place and time I met my deaiie ! 
Her head upon my throbbing breast. 

She sinking, said, " I'm thine for ever !" 
While mony a kiss the seal imprest. 

The sacred vow we ne'er should sever. 

The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae. 

The simmer joys the Hocks to follow ! 
How cheery thro' her shortening day, 

Is autumn in her weeds o' 3'ellow! 
But can they melt the glowing heart. 

Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure ? 
Or thro' each nerve the rapture dart, 

Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure ? 



OOaiE, LET ME TAKE THEE TO MY BREAST. 

AlE — Cauld Kail. 

Come, let me take thee to my breast, 
. And pledge we ne'er shall sunder; 
And I shall spurn as vilest dust 

The warlds wealth and grandeui* : 
And do I hear ray Jeanie own 

That equal transports move her ? 
I ask for dearest life alone 

That I may live to love her. 



406 BUKNS's P()i:ti(jal \v;)iiks. 

Thus in mj' arms, \vi' all. thy charms, 

I'll clasp my countless treasure : 
I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share, 

Than sic a moment's pleasure : 
And by thy cen sae honnie blue, 

I swear I'm thine for ever ; 
And on thy lips I seal my vow. 

And break it shall I never ! 



\^ HISTLE AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD. 

Tune — Whistle and I'll come to you, my lad. 

Oh, whistle ami Til come to you, my lad, 
Oh, whistle and I'll come to you, mj-^ lad ; 
Tho' father and mithcr, and a' should go mad, 
Oh, whistle and I'll come to you, my lad. 

But warily tent when ye come to court me, 
And come na, unless the back-yctt be a-jee ; 
Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see. 
And come as ye were na comin' to me. 
And come, &c. 

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet nie. 
Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd nae a flie j 
But steal me a blink o' your bounie black e'e. 
Yet look as ye were na looking at me. 
Yet look, &c. 

Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me, 
And whiles ye may Hghtly my beauty a wee 
But court nae anither, tho' jolring ye be, 
For fear that she wile your fancy frae me. 
For fear, &c. 



fifiiiitii Shm. 

Tune — Dainty Davie. 

No'W rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 
To deck her gay green- spreading bowers ; 
And now come in my happy hom-s, 
To wander wi' my Davie. 



Meet me on the warlock knowe. 
Dainty Davie, dainty Davie, 

There I'll spend the day wi' you, 
My ain dear dainty Davie. 



UEUCE 8 -L.Oi>RE63. 

The crystal waters lound us f%', 
The men y bi -is ait; lovem ',", 
The scented breezes rouni' ii.t la'v 
A-wanJcrinp v'i' my )av;t\ 

Wlicu purplu moniing stM-'.s the liare, 
To steal upon the euv'y fare, 
Then thro' the (l(>\vs J will repair, 

To . \eot my faithfu' Davie. 
When d- . .: - l-Iug in the west, 
The curta.i a.^ws of nature's rast, 
I flee to l.is arms I lo'e best, 

/.-/.. *-h.'cJ-Jz my ain dear Davie. 



BRUCE'S ADDRESS. 
Tvsi&Sey Tuttie Taittis, 
Scots, wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled. 
Scots, wham Bruce has aftcn lea, 
Welcome to your qory bod, 
Or to victorie i 

Now's the day, and now's tlfe lioui, 
See the front of battle lour ; 
See approach proud Edward's pow'r 
Chains and slavery I 

Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wlia sae base as be a slave ? 
Let him turn and flee ! 

Wha for Scotland's king and law- 
Freedom's sword will strongly d.-avr, 
Freemen stand, or freemen fa'. 
Let him follow me! 

By oppression's woes and pains, 
By your sons in servile chams, 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall be free ! 

Lay the proud usurpers low I 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! — • 
Let us do, or die ! 



BEHOLD THE HOUB 

Tune— Oraw Gaoil. 

Behold the hour, the boat arrive; 

Thou goest, thou diirliiig if my heart 
Sever'd tr-m thre, cm I -mviv"? 

But f.ite b;.., will'u, ,.ni w.- luust part. 



4»>C BURNS'S POETICAL W0K2k.C, 

ni often greet this surging swell. 

Yon distant isle will often hail ; 

** E'en here I took my last farewell ; 

There latest murk'i' her Taiish'd ssU *" 

Along the solitary shore. 

While fliting sea-fowl round mecTf, 
Across the rolling, dashing roar, 

I'll westward turn ray wistful eye ; 
Happy thou Indian grove, I'll say, 

Where now my Nancy's path may h«? 
While thro' thy sweets she loves to sv7<.*, 

Oh, tell me, does she muse on mc ? 



?[ii!i laiig f\\\\h 

Should auld acquriiuraiice he forgot. 
And never brought lo mind ? 

Should aula ixc<iiiiuiitaii<_:e be forgot. 
And days o' lang syne? 



For auld laug syne, my dear. 

For auld laiig syne. 
We'll take a cup o' kuidnesa yet. 

For auld laug svne. 

We twa ha'e run about the braes. 

And pu'd the gowans fine ; 
But we've wandered mony a weary fooli, 

Sia auld laug syne. 

We twa ha'e naidl't i' the burn, 

Frae mornin' sun till dine ; 
But seas between us braid ha'e roar'd. 

Sin auld lang syne. 

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere. 

And gi'es a hand o' thine; 
And we'll take a right guid willie-waugli^ 

For auld lang syne. 

And surely ye'll be your pint stoup. 

And surely I'll be mine ; 
And we'll take a cup o' kindness yet 

For auld lang syne. 



DELUDED SWAIN, Ttlli; PLEASURE. 409 

WHERE ARE THE JOYS? 

Tune — Saicye my Father? 

Where are the joys I have met in the morning, 

That danc'd to tho lark's early song ? 
Where is tho peac(> that awaited my wand'ring 

At evening ihe wild woods among? 

No more a-winding the course of j'on river, 

And marking sweet llovv'rets so fair: 
No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure. 

But sorrow and sad-sighing care. 

Is it that sumnrcr's forsaken our valUes, 

And grim surly winter is near ? 
No, no ! the bees hunnning round the gay rose% 

Proclaim it the pride o' the year. 

Fain would I hide what I fear to discover, 
Yet long, Io)ig too well have I known, ^ 

All that has caused this wreck in my bosom, 
Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. 

Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal. 

Nor hope dare a comfort bestow : 
Come then, enamour'd and fond of mj'^ anguish, 

Enjoyment I'll seek in my woe. 



THOU HAST LEFT ME EVER. 

Tune — Fee liim, Father. 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, thou hast left rae ever ; 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, thou hast left me ever; 
Aften hast thou vow'd that death only should us sever, 
Now thou'st left.thy hiss for aye — I maun see thee never, Jamie^ 
I'll see thee never. 

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, thou hast me forsaken ; 
Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, thou hast me forsaken ; 
Thou canst love anithcr jo, while m^^ heart is breaking : 
Soon m}' wear}' een I'll close — never mair to waken, Jamie, 
Ne'er mair to waken. 



DELUDED SWAIN, THE PLEASURE. 
Tune— TAe Collier's Bonnie Lassie, 

Deluded swain, the pleasure 
The tickle fair can give thee. 

Is but a fairy treasure — 
Thy hopes will soon deceive thee. 
21. 



410 BURNS'S POETICAL "WORKS. 

The jjillows on the ocean, 
The breezes idly roaming, 

The clouds' uucertain motion, 
They are but types of woman. 

Oh ! art thou not ashamed 
To doat upon a feature ? 
If iBan thou would'st be named, 
pise the silly creature. 



Go, find an honest fellow ! 

Good claret set before thee : 
Hold on till thou art mellow, 

And then to bed in glory. 



THINE AM I, MY FAITHFUL FAIR 
Tune — Liggeram Cosh (the Quaker's WifkJ 

Thine am 1, my faithful fair, 

Thine, my lovely Nancy : 
Ev'ry pulse along my veins, 

Ev'ry roving fancy. 

To thy bosom lay my heart, 
There to throb and languish: 

' ho' despair had wrung its core, 
That would heal its anguish. 

Take away those rosy lips, 
Rich with balmy treasure ; 

Tuiin away thine eyes of love, • 
Lest I die with pleasm'e. 

What is hfe when wanting love ? 

Night without a morning : 
Love's the cloudless summer sun, 

Nature gay adorning. 



MY SPOUSE, NANCY. 
Tune — Mi/ Jo Janet. 

* Husband, husband, cease your strife. 

No longer idly rave. Sir ; 
Tho' I am your wedded wife, 

Yet I'm not your slave, Sir. 

One of two must stiU obey, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Is it man, or woman, say. 

My spouse, Nancy ? 



THE BANKS OF CRBB. 411 

••If'tis still the lordly word. 

Service and obciiience ; 
m desert ray sovcreijrn lord, 

Aud so good-bye allegiauce I ** 

♦' Sad will I be, so bereft, 

Nancy, Nancy, 
Yet I'll try to make a shift. 

My spouse, Nancy." 

" My poor heart i hen break it must. 

My last hour I'm near it : 
When you lay me in the dust, 

Thiuk, think how you will bear it." 

" I will hope and trust iu Heaven, 

Nancy, Nancy; 
Strength to bear it will be given. 
My spouse, Nancy." 

" Well, Sir, from the silent dead. 

Still I'll try to daunt you ; 
Ever round your midnight bed 

Horrid sprites shall haunt you.* 

"I'll wed another like my dear, 

Naucy, Nancy ; 
Then all" hell will fly for fear. 

My spouse, Naucy." 



THE BANKS OF CREE, 
Tune— r/te Banks of Cree. 

Here is the glen, and here the bower. 
All underneath the birchiu shade ; 

The village-bell has toll 'd the hour. 
Oh, what can stay my lovely maid f 

Tis not Maria's whispering call , 
'Tis but the balmy-breathing gale, 

Mix'd with some warbler's dyiug faU, 
The dewy stai's of eve to hail. 

It is Maria's voice I hear ! — 

So calls the woodlark in the grove. 

His little faithful mate to cheer 1 
At once 'tis music and 'tis love. 

And art thou come ? — and art thou tnuf 
Oh, welcome dear to love aud me. 

And let us all our vows renew. 
Along the flowery banks of Cree. 



412 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY. 

Tune— O'er the Brills, S^c. 

Ho"W can my poor heart bo glad. 
When absent from my sailor lad ? 
How can I the thought forego, 
He's on the seas to meet the foe ? 
Let me wander, let me rove, 
Still my heart is with my love ; 
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day 
Ai'e with him that's far awa. 



On the seas and far away, 
On stormy seas and far away ; 
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day 
Are aye with him that's far away 

Wlien in suinmer's noon I faint, 
As weary Hocks aronnd me pant. 
Haply in the scorching smi 
My sailor's thund'ring at his gun 
Bullets spare mj- onl}' joy ! 
Bullets spare m}' darling boy ! 
Fate do with me what you may 
Spare but him that's far away ! 

At the starless midnight hour, 

When winter rules with boundless poweF 

As the storms the forest tear, 

And thunders rend the howling air, ^ 

Listening to the doubling roar, 

Surging on the rocky shore, 

All I can — I weep and pray, 

For his weal that's far away. 

Peace, thy olive wand extend, 
And bid wild war his ravage end, 
Man with brother man to meet. 
And as a brother kindly greet : 
Then may Heaven with prosperous gales 
Fill my sailor's welcome sails. 
To my arms their charge convey, 
My dear lad that's far away. 



Ca' \)t ^mn ta tlji^ %umL 



Ca' the yowes to the know^es, 
Ca' them where the heather grows 
Ca' them where the burnie rows, 
My bonnie dearie. 



8IIB SAVS SIIK LO'liS ME UEST OF A' 413 

Hark ! the mavis' eveniii;;: sang 
Soundinj^ Cloiulcn's woods amaug; 
Then a-fauldiiii,' let U3 i;aiig, 
My bomiie dearie. 

We'll gae down by Clouden side, 
Thro' the hazels spreading:: wide. 
O'er the waves that sweetly glide 
To the moon sae clearly. 

Yonder Clouden's silent towers, 
Wliere at moonshine, midnight hours. 
O'er the dewy bending flowers, 
Faries dance sae cheerie. 

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thon fear ; 
Thou'rt to love and Heaven sae dear. 
Nocht of ill may come thee near. 
My bouuie dearie. 

Fair and lovely as thou art. 
Thou hast stown my vcrry heart; 
I can die but canna part, 

My bouuie dearie. ♦ 

While waters wimple to tlie sep ; 
W"rtile day bhiiks i;i the lilts sae hie; 
Till clay -can Id death sh;il! blu-'i'iyeV- 
Ye siiall be my -lii-.ixx [ 



SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES :\IE BEST OF A\ 
Tune — Onah's Lock. 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets, 

Her eyebrows cf a. darker hue, 
Bewitchuigly c'cr-a~cning, 

Twa laughing an o' bouuie blut. 
Her smiling, sae, ^.jlng, 

Would make di\r.ci.z':i forget his WC4S 
What pleasure, what ::.".asure. 

Unto these rosy lips tf -y?7r: 
Such was my Chloris' bor.i/c '/.'.% 

Wheu first her bonnie fe.-:z ' r^v, 
And aye my Chloris' dearest cV^'V^ 

She says she lo'es me best of »', 

like harmony her motion ; 

Her pretty ancle is a spy. 
Betraying fair jiropiirtion. 

Wad make a saint forget the sky. 

2lS 



414 BUKNS'S PUKTICAL WORKS. 

Sae warming, sae charming', 

Her faultless form and graceful air ; 
Ilk feature— auld nature 

Declared that she could do nae mair. 
Hers are the willing chains o' love, 

By conquering beauty's sovereign law; 
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me best of a'. 

Let others love the city, 

And gaudj^ show at sunny noon ; 
Gi'e me the lonely valley, 

The dewy eve and vising moon.: 
Fair beaming, and streaming, 

Her silver ligbt tbe boughs amang; 
Wliile faUing, recalling. 

Tbe amorous thrush concludes his aang : 
There dearest Chloris, wilt tliou rove 

By wimpling burn and leafy sbaw, 
And hear my vows o' truth and love, 

And say thou lo'es me best of a' ! 



'■' .W YE iVn' PHILLY? 
" u"-y:v^--WTien she cam hen she hohhit. 

Oh, caw ye my dear, my Pbilly ? 
Oh, saw ye mj' dear, my Pliilly ? 
She's down i' tbe grov3, she's wi' a new love. 
She winna come ham 2 to her Willy. 

"Wt.a' s*ys sha, my dearest, my Pbilly ? 
What says she, my dearest, my Pbilly ? 
She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot, 
And for ever disowns thee her Willy. 

Oh, had I ne'er seen thee, my Pbilly ! 
Oh, had I ne'er seen thee, my Piiilly ! 
As light as tbe air, and fauso as thou's fair 
Tho'i's broken tlie heart o' thy Willy. 



HOY/ 1'On:^ and dreary is the 

•^■JNB, — Cauld hail in Aberdeen. 

K^W long and dreary is the night 
When I am frae m}' dearie ? 

I restless lie frae e'en to morn, 
The' I we're ne'er sae weary. 



81BEPST xnou, OR wak'st tjiou. 416 

cnoKus. 
Jl''jr oh ! iicr laiicly iii;j:iils are lang, 

And ob ! l<.er ilroiuns are eerie, 
And oh ! her vvidovv'd heart is sair, 

That's absent i-'n her dearie. 

When I think on ine bi^btsome days, 

I spent \\i tl.ce, my deerie. 
And now vvha' seas between ns roar, 

How can I be Imt eerie ? 
For oh! &c. 

How slow je move, ye heavy hours f 

The joyless day, how dreary ! 
It was na sae ye glinted by, 

When I was wi' my dearie. 
For oh! &c. 



LET NOT WO.MAN E'ER COMPLAIN. 

TvTSE—Buncan Gray. 

Let A(.-i :voman e'er complain 

Of inconstancy in love ; 
•jet not woman e'er compljiin 
'.Fickle man is apt to rove. J~ 

Look abroad through Natiu-e's range. 
Nature's mighty law is change; 
Ladies, would it not be strange, 
Man should then a monster prove ? 

Mark the winds, and mark tlie skies j 
Ocean's ebl , and ocean's flow, 

oun and moon but set to rise, 
Round and ror ad the seasons go. 

Wliy then ack of silly man 
To oppose great Nature's plan ? 
We'll be constant while we can — ■ 
You can be ui i^ore, you know. 



SLKEFST rilOU, OR WAK'ST THOUP 

I'UNE— De/Z tak the Wars. 

Slecp'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature? 
Rosy morn now lifts his ej'e, 
Numbering ilka bud which nature 
Waters with the t(^ars of joy : 
Now thro' the leafy woods, 
And by the reeking Hoods 



418 BUKXS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

Wild Nature's tenants, freely, gladly stray t 
The lintwhite in his bower 
Chants o'er the breathing flower. 
The lav'rock to the sky 
Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, 
While the sun and thou arise to bless the day, 

Phoebus ^uaing the brow o' morning. 

Banishes ilk darksome shade, 
Nature gladd'ning and ^ ''orning; 

.*-uoh to me, my lov .J}' maid. 

When absent from - y fair, 

The murky shades o' care 
With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky; 

B<it when in beauty's light, 

She meets my ravish'd sight, 

When through my very heart 

Her beaming glories dart, 
'Tis then I wake to life, to light, and joy- 



MY CHLORIS, jMAt;:: HOW GREEN THE GROVJ» 
TCNB — My Lodging is on the cold ground, 

II Y Chloris, ' lark how green the groves. 

The priiri-si' banks how fair; 
The balmy gales awake the flowers 

And wave thj^ flaxen hair. 

Tlie lav'Tock slums the palace gay, 

And o'er the cottage sings ; 
For nature smiles as sweet, I ween, 

To shepherds as to kings. 

Let minstrels sweep the skillfu' string 

In lordly lighted ha'. 
The shepherd stops his simple reed, 

Blythe in the birken shaw. 

The princely revel may survey 

Our rustic dance wi' scorn. 
But are their hearts as light as ours 

Beneath the milk-white thorn ? 

The shepherd in the flowery glen. 

In shepherd's phrase will woo ; 
Tlie courtier tells a flner tale. 

But is his heart as true ? 

Tliese wild-wood flowers I've pu'd to dock 

That spotless breast o' thine : 
The convtier's gems may v/itness lov&— • 

But 'tis na love like mine. 



JAEEWELL TUOU SIKKAM TjlAX UENTLY FLOWS. 417 

IT WAS TPIE CHA]LMING MONTH OF MAY. 

TxjJfE— Dainty Davie. 

It was the charming month of May, 
When all the flow'rs wore fresh and gay, 
One morning, by the break of day, 

The youtlifnl, charming Chloe, — 
From peaceful shunber she arose, 
Girt on her mantle and her hose, 
And o'er the flow'ry me;ui she goes, — 

The youthful, charming Chloe. 

cnoEus. 

Lovely was she by the dawn, 
^ Youthful Chloe, channing Chloe; 
Tripping o'er the pearly lawn. 
The j-outhful, charming Chloe. 

The feather'd people, j'ou niiglit see, 
Perch'd all around on ever}' tree, 
In notes of sweetest melody, 

They hail the charming Chloe; 
Till, painting gay the eastern skies, 
The glorious sun began to rise, 
Outnvall'd by the radiant eyes 

Of youthful, charming Chloe. 
Lovely was she, &c. 



FAEEWELL, THOU STEEAM THAT WINDINa 

FLOWS. 

Tune — Nancy s to the Gh'eemoood gane. 

Farewell, thou stream, that winding flows 

Around Eliza's dwelling ; 
Oh, mem'ry spare the cruel throes 

Within ray bosom swelling : 
Condemu'd to drag a hopeless chain. 

And yet in secret languish, 
To feel a fire in every vein, 

Nor dare disclose my anguish. 

Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown, 

I fain my griefs would cover ; 
The bursting sigh, th' unweetiug groan, 

Betraj' the hapless lover. 
I know thou duoru'st me to despair 

Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me; 
But, oh, Eli/a, hear one prayer, 

For pity's sake forgive me ! 

27 



418 JauE^"s's poetical works. 

The music of tliy voice I heard, 

Nor wist while it enslav'd me; 
I saw thine eyes, j^et nothing fear'd, 

Till fears no more had sav'd me. 
The unwary sailor thus aghast, 

The wheeling torrent viewing, 
'Midst circling horrors sinks at last 

In overwhelming ruin. 



LASSIE WI' THE LINTWHITE LOCKSi 
Tune — BotMemurche' s Eant. 



Lassie with the lintwhite locks, 
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie. 

Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks, 
Wilt thou he my dearie ? 

Now nature deeds tlie flowery lea. 
And a' is young and sweet like thee ; 
Oh, wilt thou share its joy wi' me, 
And say thou' It he my dearie ? 

Lassie wi' the lintwhite locks, &c. 

And when the welcome simmer-shower 
Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower. 
We'll to ibr? breathing woodbine bower 
At sultry noon, my dearie O. 

Lassie wi' the lintwhite locks, &c. 

When Cynthia hghts, wi' silver ray, 
The weary shearer's hameward way, 
'hro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, 
And talk of love, my dearie O. 

Lassie wi' the hnt white locks, &c 

-And when the hovling wintry blast 
iKsturbs my lassie's midnight rest, 
Enclasped to m\ lalthful breast, 
I'll comfort thee, my dearie 0. 

Lassie with the lintwhite locks, Sec, 



Tune— "^'^.i? Sow's Tail, 



On. PhilJy, h: ppy be the day 
When rovmg rhro' the gather'd hay. 
My j'oothfu' heart was stowri away. 
Ami bv ii'y charms, my Philly 



IMUl.IA- AWy WILLY. an 

PHILLT. 

Oil Willy, aye I bless the grove 
Where first I own'd my maiden love, 
Whilst thou didst pledge the pow'rs above 
To be my ain dear Willy. 

WILLY. 

As songsters of the early year 
Are ilka day more sweet to hear, 
80 ilka day to me mair dear 
And charming is my Phillj-. 

PHILLT. 

JLs on the briar the budding- rose 
Still richer breathes and fairer blows, 
L'o in my tender bosom grows 
The love I bear my WiUy, 



The milder sun and bluer sky 
lliat crown my harvest cares wi' joy, 
Were ne'er sae welcome in my ej'e 
As is a sight 0' Philly. 

PHILLT. 

Tlie little swallow's wanton wing, 
Tho' wafting o'er the flow'ry spring, 
Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring, 
As meeting 0' my Willy. 



Tlae bee that through the sunny hour 
Sips nectar in the opening flower. 
Compar'd wi' n-iy delight is poor, 
Upon the lips 0' Philly. 



Tlie woodbine in the dew}- weet, 
Wlien evening shades in silence meet, 
Is r>ocht sae fragrant or sae sweet 
As is a kiss 0' Willy. 



Let fortune's wheel at random rin, 
And fools may tine, and knavas may wia 
My thoughts are a' bound up in ane, 
And that's my ain dear Philly. 



What's a' the joys that gowd can gi'eP 
I care na wealth a single tiie ; 
ITie lad I love's the lad for me, 
And that's my ain dear Willie. 



420 BUKK S'S FOETICAIi WOEKS. 

Cnntfntrir mi' f ittb. 

Tune — Lumps o Pudding. 

CoNTBNTET) \vi' little, and caiitie wi' mair, 
Whene'er I forgathei wi' sorrow and care, 
I gi'e tliera a skelp as they're creepin' alang, 
Wi' a cog o' guid swats, and an an Id Sc^ottish sang. 

I wluk's claw the elbow o' tronblesome thought; 

But man is a sodger, and life is a faught : 

My mirth and good-hiimour are coin in my pouch, 

And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare toucbi 

A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa', 
A night o' guid fellowsln'p sowthers it a' : 
When at the blythe end of our journey at last, 
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past ? 

Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her w^^y ; 
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae ; 
Come ease, or come travail — com** plcasui*e or paio, 
My warst ward is — " Welcome, and we.:ome ag>^lnl 



CaiiHt tjinii \mt mi tljiis, tnif liitii ? 

Tune — Bot/s ITlfe. 

CHORUS. 

Canst thou leave me tluis, my Katy? 
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
Well thou know'st my aching heart, 
And canst thou leave nie thus for pity ? 

Is this thy plighted, fond regard. 
Thus cruelly to i)art, my Katj' ? 

Is this thy faithful swain's reward — 
An aching, broken b.eart, my Katy? 

Farewell ! and ne'er such sorrows tear 
That fickle heart o' thine, my Katy ! 

Thou mayst find those will love thee dear 
But not a love like mine, my Katy. 



I^nr a' tjiai miii a' tljut 

Is there, for honest poverty, 

That hangs his head, and a' that, 
I The coward slave vve pass him by, 

\ We dare be poor for a' that. 

For a' that, and a' that. 

Our toil's obscure, and a' that, 

The rank is but the guinea's stamp. 

The man's the goud for a' that. 



MT NANNIK S AWA. 4gi 

^V]\at tlio' on hamel}' fare we dine, 

Wear hoddin f^ve.y, and a' tliat ; 
Gi'e fools their silks, and knaves their ^7iIM^ 

A man's a man for a' that ; 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their tinsel show, and a' that ; 
The honest man, thou<;h e'er sae poor. 

Is king o' men for a' that. 

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 

Wha stmts, and stares, and a' that| 
Tho' hundreds worship at his word. 

He's but a coof for a' that : 
For a' tliat, and a' that, 

His riband, star, and a' that, 
The man of indepiuideut mind, 

He looks and laughs at a' that. 

A prince can mak a bfilted knight, 

# A marquis, duke, and a' that, 

But an honest man's abonn his might, 

Guid faith, he raaunna fa' that. 
For a' that and a' that, 

Their dignities, and a' that. 
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth. 

Are higher ranks than a' that. 

Tlaen let us pra}', that come it may. 

As come it will for a' that, 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth 

May bear the gree, and a' that : 
For a' that, and a' that. 

It's coming yet, for a' that, 
That man to man, the warld o'er. 

Shall brothers be for a' that. 



Ml] MimiufB xiinK. 

Tune — There'll never be peace, <^c. 

Now in her green mantle blythe nature arrays. 
And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braea. 
While birds warble welcome in ilka green shawj 
But to me it's delightless — my Nannie's awa. 

The snaw-di*ap and primrose our woodlands adorn. 
And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn ; 
They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw, 
They mind me o' Nannie — and Nannie's awa. 

Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews o' the la\n^ 
The shepherd to warn o' the grey-breaking dawn, 
And thou mellow mavis that hails the night-fa' 
Give over for pity — my Nannie's awa. 

2m 



BURNS'S POETICAL WOEXS. 

Come autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and grey, 
And soothe me wi' tidings o' nature's decay ; 
The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving sn&ir, 
Alane can delight me — now Nannie's awa. 



toigirliiirii WA 

Tune — Craigiehurn Wood, 

Sweet fa's the eve on Craig-ieburn, 
And hlythe awakes the morrow ; 

But a' the pride o' spring's return 
Can yield me nocht but sorrow. 

I see' the flowers and spreading trees, 
I hear the wild birds singing ; 

But what a weary wight can please, 
And care his bosom wringing ? 

Fain, fain would I my gnefs impart, 

Yet dare na for your anger ; 
But secret love will break my heart, 

If I conceal it lauger. 

If thou refuse to pity me, 

If thou sbalt love anither 
Wlien you green leaves fade frae the tree, 

Around my grave they'll wither. 



OH LASSIE, ART THOU SLEEPING YETf 

Tune — Jjet me in this ane NigJiU 

Oh lassie, art thou sleeping jat ? 
Or art thou wakin', I would wit ? 
For love has bound me hand and foot, 
And I would fain be in, jo. 

CHOKUS. 

Oh let me in this ane night, 

This ane, ane, ane night; 
For pity's sake this ane night, 

Oh rise and let me in, Jo! 

Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet, 
Nae star bUnks thro' the driving sleet; 

Tak pity on my weary feet, ^ ^-* 

And shield me frae the rain, jo. 

The bittei blast that round me blaws 
Unheeded howlS; vjibeeded fa's; 
The caulduess o' thv heart's the cause 
Of a' my gnet and pain, jo. 



ASDBESS TO THE WOODULEK. 



Beply to the Foregoing, 

Oh tell me na o' wad and rain, 
Upbraid me na \v\ cauld disdain ; 
Gae back tbe pfiit yc cam again, 
I winna let you iu, jo ! 

cnoEUS. 

I tell you now tliis ane night, 

Tliia ane, aue, ane night ; 
And ance for a' this ane night, 

I winna let j-ou in, jo. 

The snellest blast, at mirkest hours, 
That round the pathless waud'rer pours, 
Is nocht to what poor she endures, 
That's trusted faithless man, jo. 

The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead. 
Now trodden like the vilest weed ; 
Let simple maid the lesson read. 
The weird may be her ain, jo. 

The bird that charm'd his summer day, 
Is now the cruel fowler's prey ; 
Let witless, trusting, woman say 
How aft her fate's the same, jo. 



Ites3 in \\}i Vduliuk. 

TuNB — Wherein Bonnie Ann lie ? or, Loch-JEroch 8id0, 

Oh stay, sweet warbling wook-lark, stay 
Nor quit me for the trembUng spray, 
A hapless lover courts thy lay. 
Thy soothing, fond complaining. 

Again, again that tender part, 
** That I may catch thy melting art; 

For surely that wad touch her heart. 
Wha kills me wi' disdaining. 

Say, was thy httle mate unkind. 
And heard thee as the careless wind ? 
Oh ! nocht but love and sorrow join'd. 
Sic notes o' woe could wauken. 

Thou tells o' never-ending care; 
Oh speechless grief, and dark despair; 
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair. 
Or my poor heart is broken ! 



i24 



BUENS S POEXICAIj WORKS. 

^n Cirlnris bmg Ml 

Tune — Ai/e toakin, O. 



Long, long the night, 
Heavy comes the morrow, 

While my soul's dehght 
Is on her bed of Borrow. 

Can I cease to care, 

Can I cease to languish, 

While my darling fair 
Is on the couch of anguish ? 

Every hope is fled, 

Every fear is terror ; 
Slumber even I dread, 

Every di-eam is horror. 

Hear me, Pow'rs divine ! 

Oh ! in pity hear me ! 
Take aught else of mine. 

But my Chloris spare me ! 



f Ireir irnnBS n' gmnt 3Hijrtk. 

Tune — Sumours of Glen. 

Theie groves o' sweet mjTtle let foreign lands reckon. 
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume; 

Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, 
Wi' the burn steahug under the lang yellow broom. 

Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, 
Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen j 

For there, hghtly tripping amang the wild flowers, ^ 
A-listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. 

Tho' rich in the breeze, in their gay sunny vaUies, 
And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave ; 
Tlieir sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace^, 
What are they ? — the haunt of the tyrant and slave! 

The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbUng fountains, 
Tho brave Caledonian views with disdain ; 

He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains. 
Save love's willing fetters — the chains of his Jean. 



JIABK YON POMP OF COURTLV FASHIOIT. 135 

HOW CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS. 

ALTERED FROM AN OLD SCOTTISn BONO. 

Tune — John Anderson my Jo. 



\{o^x cruel :ire the parents 

Who riches only prize ; 
And to the wealthy booby, 

Poor woman sacrifice ! 
Meanwhile tlie hapless daughter 

Has but a choice ol' strife ; 
To shun a tyrant father's hate, 

Become a wretched wife. 

The rav'ning hawk pursuing 

The treml)ling dove thus tlies, 
To shun impelling ruin 

Awhile her pinion tries 
Till of escape despairing, 

No shelter or retreat, 
Slie tnists tlie rutliless falconer, 

And drops beneath his feet ! 



TWAS NA HER BONNIE HLUE E'E WAS MY RUIN. 

Tune — Laddie, h'e near me. 

'TwAS na her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin ; 
Fair tlio' she be, that was ne'er my undoing: 
'Twas tlie dear smile when naebodj'^ did mind us, 
*Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o' kindness. 

Sail do I fear that to hope is denied me, 
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me; 
But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever, 
Queen sliall she be in my bosom for ever, 

Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest. 
And thou hast plighted me love tlw dearest! 
And thou'rt tlie angel that never can alter, 
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter. 



MARK YON POMP OP COURTLY FASHION. 
Tune — Deil tak the JFars. 

Mark yonder pomp of courtly fashion. 

Round the wealthy, titled bride; 
But when compar'd with real passion, 

Poor is all that princolv pride. 

2 M 3 



426 BUENS'S POETICAX WOHKS. 

What are the showy treasures ? 

What are the noisy pleasures ? 
The gay gaudy glare of vanity and art r 

The polished jewel's blaze 

May draw the wond'ring gaze, 

And courtly grandeur bright 

The fancy may delight, 
But never, never can come near the heart. 

But did you see ray dearest Chloris, 

In simplicity's array ; 
Lovely as yonder sweet opening flovyer is, 

Shrinking from the gaze of day. 

Oh then the heart alarming, 

And all resistless, charming, 
In Love's delightful fetters she chains the willing soul ! 

Ambition would disown 

The world's imperial crown, 

Even Avarice would deny 

His worshipp'd deity, 
And feel thro' ev'ry vein Love's raptui'es rolL 



OH, THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIE. 

Tune — This is no my ain Souse. 

Oh this is no my ain lassie. 

Fair tho' the lassie be ! 
Oh weel ken I my ain lassie, 

Kind love is in her e'e. 

I see a form, I see a fiice. 
Ye weel may wi' the fairest place ; 
It wants, to me, the witching grace. 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 

She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tal^ 
And lang has had my heart in thrall; 
And aye it charms my \ ery saul. 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 

A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, 
To steal a blink by a' unseen ; 
But gleg as light as lovers' een, 
When kind love is in the e'e. "^^v 

It may escape the courtly sparks, ^'^''^^ 

It may escape the learned clerks, 
But weel the watching lover marks 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 



on uo^^l^; \va:; \oy i;osv ituncE. 4C7 

NOW SPRING HAS CLAD TiJE GROVE IN GREEN. 

Now spring has clad tht; vM'ove in green, 

And strew 'd rli.- lea vvi' flowers; 
The Ivur. wd, waviiisi corn is seen 

iicjoicf ill iostcring sliowers: 
Wliiloilka tiling in nature join 

Tlieir sorrows to forego, 
Oh wh}' tlius all alone are mine 

Tlie weary steps of woe ! 

The trout within yon wimpling burn 

Glides swift — a silver dart, 
And safe beneath the shady thoru 

Defies the angler's art. 
My life was anee that careless stream, 

That wanton tront was I ; 
But love, wi' unrelenting beam. 

Has scorch'd my fountains dry. 

The little iiow'ret's peaceful lot, 

In yonder clitf that grows, 
Whicli, save the linnet's Alight, I wot, 

Nae ruder visit knows, 
Was mine ; till love has o'er me past, 

And blighted a' my bloom, 
And now beneath the with'ring blast 

My 3'outh and joy consume. 

The waken 'd lav'rock warbling springs, 

And claims the early sky. 
Winnowing blythe her dewy wings 

In mornings rosy eye. 
As little reck'd I sorrow's power, 

Until the Howery -^nare 
0' witcliing love, in luckless hour. 

Made me the thrall o' care. 

Oh had my fate been Greenland snows 

Or Afric's burning zone, 
Wi' man and nature leagu'd my foes, 

So Peggy necr I'd known ! 
Ihe wretch whose doom is, " hope nae TOtaif 

What tongue his woes can tell ? 
Within whose bosom, save despair, 

Nae kinder spirits dwell. 



OH BONNIE WAS YON ROSY BRIER. 

Oh bonnie was yon rosy bner, 

That blooms so far frae haunt o' man; 

And ])onnie she. and ah ! how dear 1 
It shaded frae tlie e'enin' sun. 



J 



BUKNS 8 POETICAL W0EK3. 

Ton rosebuds in the morning dew, 
How pure amang the leaves sae green ; 

But purer was the lover's vow 
They vvitness'd in tlieir shade yestreen. 

All in its rude and prickly bower, 

That crimson rose, how sweet and fair : 

But love is flir a sweeter flower 
Amid life's thorny path o' care. 

The pathless wild and wimpling burn, 
Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine ; 

And I the world, nor wish, nor scorn, 
Its joys and griefs alike resign. 



FORLORN MY LOVE, NO COMFORT NEAR. 

Tune — Let me in this ane Night. 

FoRLOBN my love, no comfort near ; 
Far, far from thee, I wander here j 
Far, far from thee the fate severe 
At which I most repine, love. 

cnoBUS. 

Oh wert thou, love, but near me ; . 
But near me, but near me : 
How kindly thou wouldst cheer me, 
And mingle sighs with mine, love. 

Around me scowls a wintrj-^ sky, 
That blasts each bud of hope and joy ; 
And shelter, shade, nor home have I, 
Save in those arms of thine, love. 

Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part. 

To poison fortune's ruthless dart — 

Let me not break thy faithful heart. 

And say that fate is mine, love. 

But di'eary tho' the moments fleet. 
Oh let me think we yet shall meet ! 
The only ray of solace sweet 
Can on thy Chloris shine, love. 



HJ}Y FOR A LASS WI' A TOCHER 

TuKE — Balinamotia ora. 

AwA wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alanns. 
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your armi ; 
Oh, gi'e me the liiss that has acres o' charms. 
Oh, gi'e me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farm*. 



LAST MAY A BRAW WOOEli 



Then hey for a lass wi' a tochor, then liey for a lass wi' a tocher 
Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher — the nice yuUow guineas fer mew 

Your beauty's a flower, in the n^iorning that blows, 
And withers the faster, the faster it gi'ows : 
But the rapturous chann o' the l)onnie green knowes, 
Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonnie white yowes. 

And e'en when this Ijeauty a'oiu- bosom has blest. 
The brightest o' beauty may cloy when possest ; 
But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Georclie imprest, 
The lauger ye ha'e them, the niair they're carest. 



LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER. 
Tune — The Lothian Lassie. 

Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, 

And sair with his love he did deave me ; 
I said there was naetlung I hated like men — 

The deuce gae wi'm to believe me, beheve me, 

The deuce gae \vi'm to believe me. 

He spak o' the darts o' my bonny black een. 

And vow'd for my love he was dying ; 
I said he might die when he liked for Jean — • 

The Lord forgi'e me for lying, for lying, 

The Lord forgi'e me for lying. 

A well-stocked mailen, liimsel' for the laird, 
And marriage atf-hand were his proffers ; 

I never loot on that I kenn'd it, or car'd, 
But thought I maun ha'e waur offers, waur offers, 
But I thought I might ha'e waur offers. 

But what wad ye think ? — in a fortnight or less. 

The deil tak his taste to gae near her ! 
He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess, 

Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her, could bear lier 

Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her. 

But a' the niest week as I fifetted wi' care, 

I gaed to the tryst at Dalgarnock, 
And wha but my fine tickle lover Wiis there, 

I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, 

I glowr'd a.s I'd seen a warlock. 

But owre my left shoather I ga'e him a blinl^ 

Lest neil)ors might say I was saucy ; 
My wooer he caper'd a-s he'd been in drink. 

And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie. 

And vow'd I was hi;i dear lassie. 



430 BUENS'S POETICAL WOIIKS. 

1 spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, 
Gin she had recovered her hearing', 

And how her new shoon fit her auld shachl't feet. 
But, heavens ! how lie fell a swoarin', a-swearing. 
But, heavens ! how he fell a-swearin'. 

He begged, for guidsake, I wad be his wife, 
Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow: 

So e'en to preserve the poor -body in life, 

I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow, 
I tliink I maun wed him to-morrow. 



jTnignirnt. 

TuNB — The Caledonian Hunt's Delight. 

Why, why tell tliy lover, 

Bliss he never must enjoj'? 
Why, w^hyundeceive him, 

And give all his hopes the lie ? 

Oh whj% while fancy, raptur'd slumbers, 
Chloris, Chloris all the theme, 

Why, why wouldst thou cruel. 
Wake thj'- lover from his dream ? 



CHORUS. 

Heee's a health to ane I lo'e dear ! 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ! 

Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lover's vaaHtf 

And soft as their parting tear — Jessy ! 

Altlio' thou maun never be mine, 

Altho' even liope is denied : 
Tis sweeter for thee despairing, 

Then aught in the world beside — Jessy ! 

1 mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day, 
As hopeless, I muse on thy charms ; 

But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber. 
For then I am lock't in thy arms — Jessy ! 

I guess by the dear angel smile, 

I guess by the love rolling e'e ; 
But why urge the tender confession, 

'Gainst fortune's feU cruel decree — ^Jessy. 



HANDSOME NELIi. 'IhU 

FAIREST MAID ON DEVON BANKS. 

TvTHE—Eothiemurche. 



Fairest maid on Devon banks, 
Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 

Wilt thon lay tliat frown aside, 
And smile as tliou were wont to do. 

Full well thou know'st I love thee dear, 
Could'st thou to malice lend an ear? 
Oh, did not love exclaim, " Forbear, 
Nor use a t'aithfu' lover so ?" 

Then come, thou fairest of the fair. 
Those wonted smiles, oh let me share I 
And, by thy beauteous self I swear, 
No love but thine my heart shall know 



HANDSOME NELL. 

Ou once I lov'd a bonuie lass, 

Aye, I love her still ; 
And whilst that honour warms my breast, 

I'll love iny handsome Nell. 

As bonnie lasses I ha'e seen. 

And mony full as braw ; 
But for a modest gracefu' mien, 

The like I never saw. 

A bonnie lass, I will confess. 

Is pleasant to the e'e, '^ 

But wathoiit some better qualities, / 
She's uo the lass for me. 

But Nelly's looks are blythe and sweet, 

And, what is best of a'. 
Her reputation is complete, 

And tair without a flaw. 

She dresses aye sae clean and neat. 

Both decent and genteel : 
And then there's something in her gait 

Gars ony dress look weel. 

A gaudy dress and gentle air 
May slightly touch the heart ; 

But it's innocence and modesty 
That polishes the dart. 

'Tis this in Nell}' pleases me, 

'Tis this enchants my soul; 
For absolutely in my breast 

She reigns without controL 



432 BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

M^ FATHER WAS A FARMER. 

Tune — The Weaver and Ms Shuttle, O. 

My father was a farmer upon the Carrick border, 0, 
Aud carefully he bred rae in deceucj- and order, ; 
He bade me act a manly y&vt, though I had ne'er a farthing, 0, 
For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth regai'd- 
ing, O. 

Then out into the world my course I did determine, O ; [ : 
Tho' to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming 
My talents tliey were not the worst, nor yet my education, • 
Resolved was I, at least to trj', to mend my iituatioji, 0. 

In many a way, nr.<] viii;i essay, I ro'.irtod iV.rtuno's favour, 0; 

Some causr luisecu slill stei)t between, to frustrate each endea- 
vour, 0. 

Sometimes bv foes I v'as o'criiovver'd , sometimes by friends 
tbrsp.keiK (). 

And ivheii my hope was at the top, I still was worst mistaken, 0. 

Then sore harass'd, and tir'd at last, with fortune's vain delu- 
sion, 0, _ [O— 
I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this conclusion, 
The past was bad, and the future hid ; its good or ill untried, 0; 
But the present hour was in my pow'r, and so I would enjoy it, 0. 

No help, nor hope, nor view had I, nor person to befriend me, ; 
So I must toil, and sweat and broil, and labour to sustain me, : 
To plough and sow, and reap and mow, my father bred me early, 
0; [6. 

For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for fortune fairly, 

Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro' life I'm doom'd to 

wander, 0, 
Till down m}' weary bones I lay, in everlasting slumber, 0, 
No view nor care, but shun whate'er might breed me pain or 

sorrow, O ! 
I live to-day as well's I may, regardless of to-morrow, 0. 

But cheerful stiil, I am as well, as a monarch in a palace, O, 
Tho' fortune's frown still hunts me down, with all her wonted 

malice, : 
I make indeed my daily bread, but ne'er can make it farther, ; 
But as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard her, 0. 

When sometimes hy my labour 1 earn a little money, O, 
Some unforseen misfortune comes gen'rally upon me, O ; 
lilischance, mistake, or by neglect, or mv good-natur'd folly, O; 
But come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll ne'er be melancholy, 0. 



DET, THE DUSTY MILLER, j'33 

All 3'ou who follow wealth and power wi' unremittin.tj ardour, 0, 
The more in thL<« vou look for hliss, you leave your view the far* 

ther, O : 
Had you the wealth Potosi hoasts, or nations to adore you, 0, 
A cheerful, honest-hearted clown I will prefer hefore you, O. 



a|r in liic TTlnniiiig ml\\. 

Tune — Cold blows the Wind. 



Up in the morning's no for me, 
Up in the morning early : 

When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snaw 
I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

Cauld blaws the wind frao east to west, 

The drift is driving sairly ; 
Sae loud and shrill I hear the blast, 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

The birds sit cluttering in the thorn, 

A' day the}' fare but sparely ; 
And lang's the night Ira e'en to morn— 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 



in[, tiiB Uirstii ffiilkr 

Tune— r//c Busty Miller. 

Hey, the dusty miller, 

And his dusty coat ; 
He will win a shilling. 

Or he spend a groat. 
Dusty was the coat, 

Dusty was the colour, 
Dusty was the kiss 

That I got frae the miller. 

Hey the dusty miller. 

And his dusty sack ; 
Leeze me on the calling 

Fills the dusty peck^ 

Fills the dusty peck, 
Brings the dusty siller ; 

I wad gi'e my coatie 

,;. For the dusty miller. 



28 2h 



434 BUBNS'S POETICAL WOEKSi 

Tune — Dainty Davie. 

There was a lad was born in Kyle, 
But whatna day o' whatna style 
I doubt its hardly wortli the while 
To be sae nice wi' Robin. 
Robin was a rovin' boy, 

Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin', 
Robin was a rovin' boy, 
Rantin' rovin' Robin. 

Our monarch's hindmost year but an* 
Was five-and-twenty days begun, 
'Twas then a blast o' J anwar' win' 
Blew hansel in on Robi'u. 

The gossip keekit in his loof. 
Quo scho, wha lives will see the proof. 
This waley boy will be nae coof ; 
I think we'll ca' him Robin. 

He'll ha'e misfortunes great and sma', 
But aye a heart aboon them a' ; 
He'll be a credit till us a' — 
We'll a' be proud o' Robin. 

But sure as three times three mak nine, 
I see by ilka score and line, 
This chap will dearly like our kin', 
So leeze me on thee, Robin. 



THE BELLES OP MAUCHLINE. 

In Mauchline there dwells six proper young belles^ 

The pride of the place and its neighbourhood a', 
Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess, 

In London or Paris they'd gotten it a'. 
Miss Miller is fine. Miss Markland's divine. 

Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw. 
There's beauty and fortune to get wi' Miss Morton, 

But Armour's the jewel for me o' them a'. 



Heb, flowing locks, the raven's wing, 
Adown her neck and bosom hing ; 
How sweet unto that breast to cling, 
And round that neck entwine her. 



THB JOTPUL WIDOWBB. 435 

Her lips !\Y0 ro-^cs wat wi' dew, 
Oh, \v)iat a fi-ast hcv l)oiinic inou'! 
Hev chocks a inair colestial hue, 
A crimson still diviner. 



THE SONS OF OLD KILLIE. 
TvifE—Shatcnhoi/. 

Ye sons of old Killio, assomblcd by Willie, 

To follow tlie noble vofatiou. 
Your thrifty old mother has scarce such an{ ther 

To sit in that honoured station. 
I've little to say, but only to pray, _ 

As praying's the ton of your fashion; 
A prayer from the muse you well may excuse, 

'Tis seldom her favorite passion. 

Ye powers who preside o'er the wind and the tide, 

Who inarked each element's border ; 
Wlio formed this frame with Ijeneficent aim, 

Whose sovereign statute is order ; 
Within this dear mansion may wayward contentioik 

Or withered envy ne'er enter • 
May secrecy round be the mystiml bound, 

And brotherly love be the centre. 



^^ Suijfiil 'H'iiinmrt 

Tune — Maggy Lauder. 

I married with a scolding wife, 

The fourteenth of Novemter; 
She made me weary of my life, 

By one unruly member. 
Long did I bear the heavy yoke. 

And many griefs attended; 
But to my comfort be it spoke, 

Now, now her life is ended. 

We lived full one-and-twenty j'ears, 

A man and wife together ; 
At length from me her course she steer*^ 

And gone I know not whither : 
Would I could guess, I do profess, 

I speak and do not flatter. 
Of all the women in the world, 

I never could come at her. 

Her bodj^ is bestowed well, 
A handsome grave does hide her ; 

But sure her soul is not in hell. 
The deil would ne'er abide her I 



436 BUENS'S POETICAL WOEKS. 

I rather think she is aloft, 
Ai)d imitating thunder; 

For whj' ? — methinks I hear her voice 
Tearing the clouds assunder ! 



Tune — Bonnie Dundee. 

O, WHAEE did you got that hauver meal bannock f 

Oh silly Wind hody, oh dinna ye see ? 
I gat it frae a brisk young sodger laddie, 

Between Saint Johnston and bonnie Dundee, 
Oh, gin I saw the laddie that ga'e rae't ! 

Aft has he doudled me upon his knee ; 
May Heaven protect my bonnie Scots laddie, 

And send him safe hame to his babie and me I 

My blessin's upon thy swfict wee lippie, 

My blessin's upon thy bonnie o'e-bree ! 
Thy smiles are sae like my blythe sodger laddie, 

Thou's aye the dearer and dearer to me ! 
But I'll big a bower on yon bonnie banks, 

Where Tay rins wimplin' b}' sae clear ; 
And I'll deed thee in the tartan sac fine, 

And mak thee a man like thy daddio dear. 



Tune — Duncan Davison.. 

There was a lass, they ca'd her Meg, 

And she held o'er the moors to spin; 
There was a lad that foliow'd her. 

They ca'd him Duncan Davison. 
The mdor was driegh, and meg was skeigh. 

Her favour Duncan could na win ; 
For wi' the rock she wad him knock, 

And aye she sLook the temper-pin. 

As o'er the moor they lightly foor, 

A burn was clear, a glen was green, 
Upon the banks tiiey eas'd their shanks, 

And aye she set the wheel between ; 
But Duncan swore a haly aith 

That Meg should be abride the mom. 
Then Meg took up her spinnin' graith, 

And flung them a' out o'er the burn. 

We'U big a house — a wee, wee house, 
And we \nll live like king and queen, 

Sae blythe and merry we will be 
"When we sit by the wheel at een. 



EATLIN' ROARIn' WILLIE, 437 

A man may drink and no b« drunk : 

A man may fi^^lit and no he slain ; 
A man ma}' kiss a bonnie lass.. 

And aye be welcome back again. 



laiiMairif, rniint tliB tmivu 

TuKE — Het/ tuttie, taittie. 

Landlady, count the lawin, 
The day is near the dawin ; 
Ye're a' blind dnmk, boys, 
And I'm but jolly t'ou. 

Hey tnttie, taittie, 

How tnttie, taittie— 

Wha's fou now ? 

Cog, an ye were aye fou. 
Cog, an ye were aye fDu. 
I wad sit and sing to you, 
If ye were aye fou. 

Weel may ye a' be ! 
Ill may we never see ! 
God bless the king, bo>'8 
And the coinpanie ! 



IRnttlia' IRnKriii' W\\[k. 

Tune — ludtlin' lloarin Willie 

Oh, rattlin' i-oarin' Willie, , 

Oh, he held to the fair, 
And for to sell his fiddle. 

And buy some other ware ; 
But parting wi' his fiddle, 

The saut tear blin't his e'e ; 
And rattlin' roarin' Willie, 

Ye're welcome hame to me ! 

Oh Willie, come sell 3'our fiddle. 

Oh sell your fiddle sae fine; 
Oh Willie, come sell your fiddle, 

And buy a pint 0' wine. 
If I should sell my fiddle. 

The warl would think I was mad| 
For monj-- a rantin' day 

My fiddle and I ha'e had. 

As I cam by Crochallan, 

I cannnily keekit ben — • 
Ratlin' roarin' Willie 

Was sitting at yon board en* — 

2ir3 



BUKNS S POETICAL WORKa. 

Sitting at yon board ne', 
And amang guid companie 

Katlin' roarin' Willie, 
Ye're welcome hame to me 



Tune — A^/e WauMn, O. 

Simmee's a pleasant time, 
Flow'rs of every colour ; 

The water rins o'er the heugh, 
And I long for my true lover. 

Aye waukin 0, 

Waukin still and weary 
Sleep I can get na)ie 

For thinking on my deariet 

When I sleep I dream, 
When 1 wauk I'm eenot 

Sleep I can get naue 

For thinking on my deane. 

Lanely night comes on, 
A' the lave are sleeping ; 

I think on my bonnie lad. 
And bleer my een wi' greetin 



Tune — Ladj/ ISadinscotlis Beel, 

My love she's but a lassie yet, 

My love she's hut a lassie yet, 
We'll let her stand a year or twa, 

She'll no be half sae saucy jet. 
I rue the day I sought her, 0, 

I rue the day I sought her, O; 
Wha gets her needs na say she's woo' J 

But he may say he's bought her, 01 

Come, draw a drap o' the best o't j'et, 

Come, draw a drap o' the best o't j'et; 
Grae seek for pleasure where ye will, 

But here I never miss'd it }'et. 
We're a' dry wi' drinking o't. 

We're a' dxj^ wi' drinking o't; 
The minister kiss'd the fiddler's wife, 

And could na preach for thinking o*U 



inKKEs A YouTu IN rma city. iOQ 

THE Ciij'TAIN'S LADY. 
TuKE— 07i Mount and Go. 

CIIOKUS. 

Oh mount and go, 
Mount and make you ready; 

Oh mount and go, 
And be the captain's lady. 
When the drums do beat, 

And the cannons rattle, 
Thou shalt sit in state, 

And see thy love in battle. 
Wlieu tbc vanquiyh'd foe 

Sues for peace and quiet. 
To the shades we'll go, 

And in love enjoy it. 



PIKST WHEN MAGGY WAS MY CAKH 
TvsE— Whistle o'er the lave o*t. 

FiEST when Maggy was my care. 
Heaven I thougiit was in her air,' 
Now we're married— spier nae mair — 

Whistle o'er the lave o't, 
Meg was meek, and Meg was mild, 
Bonnie Meg was nature's child ; 
Wiser men than mc's beguil'd— 
Wlaistle o'er the lave o't. 

How we live, my Meg and me. 
How we live, and how we 'gree, 
I care na by how few may see — 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 
Wlia I wish were maggot's meat 
Dish'd up in her winding sheet, 
I could write— but Meg maun see't — 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 



THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY. 

To a Gaelic air. 

There's a youth in this city, it were a great pity 

That [le frae our lasses should wander awa ; 
For he's boimie and braw, weel favour'd and a', 

And liis hair has a natural buckle and a'. 
His coat is the hue of his bonnet sae blue, 

His fecket is white as the new-driven snaw ; 
His hose they are blae, and his shoon like the slae, 

And his clear siller buckles tliey dazzle us a'. 



440 rtJRNs'g poetical woeks. 

For beauty and fortune the laddie's been courtin' ; 
Weel-featur'd, wee-toeber'd, vfeel-mounted, andbraW; 

But chiefly the siller, that gars him gang till her, 
The penny's the jewel that beautifies a'. 

There's Meg with the mailen that fain wad a-haeil him; 
And Susan, whose daddie was laird o' the ha' ; 

There's lang-tocher'd Nancy maist fetters his fancy- 
But the laddie's dear sel' he lo'es dearest of a*. 



OH, AYE MY WIFE SHE DANG ME. 
Tune — My Wife she dang me. 

Oh aj'c nny wife she dang me, 

And aft my wife did bang me. 
If ye gi'e a woman a' her will, 

Guid faith, she'll soon o'ergang ye. 
On peace and rest my mind was bent, 

And fool I was I married; 
But never honest man's intent 

As cursedly miscarried. 

Some sa'r o' comfort still at last. 

When a' my days are done, man ; 
My pains o' hell ou earth are past, 

I'm sure o' bliss aboon, man. 
Oh aj^e my wife she dang me, 

And aft my wife did bang me. 
If ye gi'e a woman a' her will 

Guid faith, she'll soon o'ergang ye^ 



EPPIE ADAIR. 

Tune — My JSppie, 

And oh ! my Eppie, 
My jewel, my Eppie ! 
Wlia wadna be happy 

Wi' Eppie Adair ? 
By love, and by beauty 
By law, and by duty 
I swear to be true to 

My Eppie Adair ! 

And oh ! my Eppie, 
My jewel, my Eppie, 
Wha wadna be happy 

Wi' Eppie Adair ? 
A' pleasure exile me, 
Disnonour defile me. 
If e'er I beguile thee, 

My Eppie Adair I 



THE BATTLE OP 8HEREIFF-MUIK. 441 

THE BATTLE- OF SIIEIIRIFF-MUIR. 
Tune — Camcronian Bant. 

** On cam ye here the light to shun. 

Or herd the sheep vvi' me, man ? 
Or where ye at the Slierrii-muir, 

And did the battle soe, man ? " 
" I saw the battle sair and tout^h, 
And reeldn' red ran mony a sheugh, 
My heart for fear, gacd songh for .sough| 
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds, 
O' clans frae woods in tartan duds, 

Wlia glaum'd at kingdon)s three, man. 

The red-coat lads, wi' black cockades, 

To meet them were na slow, man ; 

They rush'd and push'd, and bhiid outgush'd, 

And monj'- a bonk did fa', man : 
The great Argyleled on his files, 
I wat they glanc'd for twenty miles , 
They hacli'dand hasli'd, while broadswords clash'd. 
And thro' they dasU'd, and hew'd, and smash' d. 

Till fey men died awa, man. 

But had you seen the philabegs. 

And skyrin tartan trews, man ; 
When in the teeth they dar'd our Whigs, 

And covenant true blues, man ; 
In lines extended lang and large, 
When bayonets oppos'd the targe. 
And thousands liasten'd to the charge, 
Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sheath 
Drew blades o' death, till, out o' breath, 

They fled like frighted doos, man." 

" Oh how deil, Tarn, can that be true ? 

The chase gaed fi-ae the north, man ; 
I saw myself they did pursue 

The hoT'semen back to Forth, man ;. 
And at Dunblane, in my ain sight. 
They took tlie l)rig with a' their might, 
And straight to Stirling wing'd their flight. 
But, cursed lot ! the gates were shut ; 
And mony a huntit, poor red-coat. 

For fear amaist did swarf, man ! " 

" My sister Kate cam up the gate, 

Wi' crowdie unto me, man; 
She swore she saw some rebels mn 

Frae Perth unto Dundee, mau: 
Tlieir ieftJiand general hau uae skill. 
The Angus lads had nae good wUl 



44a EUKNS'S POETICAL >yOIlK3. 

That day their neibor's blood to spill ; 
For fear, b}' foes, that they should losfe 
Their cogs o' brose — all crying woes ; 
And so it goes, you see, man. 

They've lost some gallant gentlemen "* 

Amang the Highland clans, man ; 
I fear my lord Panmure is slain. 

Or fallen in Whiggish hands, man : 
Now wad ye sing this double light. 
Some fell for wrang, and some for right j 
But mony bade the world guid night j 
Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, 
By red claymores, and muskets' knell, 
Wi' dying yell the Tories fell, 
And Whigs to hell did flee, man. 



THE HIGHLAND WIDOW'S LAMENX. 

Oh ! I am come to the low countrie, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Without a penny in ni}- purse. 

To buy a meal to me. 

It was na sae in the Highland hills, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Nae woman in the country wide 

Sae happy was as me. 

For then I had a score o' kye, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Feeding on yon hills so high, 

And giving milk to me. 

And there I had three score o' yowe*, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Skipping on yon bonnie knowes, 

And casting woo' to me. 

I was the happiest of a' the clan, 

Sair, sair may I repine; 
For Donald was the brawest lad. 

And Donald he was mine. 

Till Cliarhe Stewart cam at last, 

Sae far to set us ft-ee ; 
My Donald's arm was wanted then* 

For Scotland and for me. 

Then- waefu' fate what need I tellP 
Right to the wrang did yield: 

My Donald and his country fell 
Upon CuUoden's field. 



THEMKL MENZIk's BONNIE MABT 443 

Oh! I Jim come to the low countrie, 

Och-oii, ocli-oii. ocli-rio ! 
Nae woman in tlu' world wide 

Sae wretched now as uic. 



WHARE HA'E YE BEEN? 

TvsE— Kill icranJcie. 

Whake ha'e j'e been sae braw, lad ? 

Wbave ha'e ye been sae brankie, O? 
Oh whare ha'e ye bof;n sae braw, lad ? 

Cam ye by KilHerankie, O? 
An ye had been wliaro I hfo been, 

Ye wad na been sae cantie, O ; 
An ye had seen what I ha'e seen, 

Ou the braes of Killicrankie, 0. 

I fought at land, I fought at sea ; 

At hamo I foug-ht iny auntie, : 
But 1 met tlie devil and Dundee, 

On the braes of Killicrankie, 0. 
The bauld Pitcur fell in a furr, 

And Clavers g-ot a clankie, ; 
Or I had fed on Athole gled, 

On the braes o' Killicrankie, O. 



THENIEL MENZIE'S BONNIE MABl 
Tune— r/ie Rtiffian's Bant. 

In coming by the brig o' Dye, 

At Darlet we a blink did tarry ; 
As day was dawiu in the sky, 

We drank a health to bouuie Mary. 
ThenielMenzie's bonnie Mary, 

Theniel Menzie's bonnie Mary ; 
Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie, 

Kissing Theniel's bonnie Mary. 

Her een sae bright, her brow sae whita^ 

Her haflet locks as brown's a berry; 
And aye they dimp^'k wi' a smile, 

The rosy clieeks jf bonnie Mary. 
We lap and danc'd lie loe-lang day, 

Till piper lads were wae and weary; 
But Charlie gat the si)ring to pay, 

For kissing Theniel's bonnie Mary. 



444 BCK.NS'S FOEXICJk.L WOKKS. 

FRAE THE FRIENDS AND LAND 1 liOVK. 

Air — Carron Side. 
Frae the frionds and land I love 

Driv'n by fortune's felly spite, 
Frae my best bolov'd I rove, 

Never mair to taste delight : 
Never mair maun hope to find 

Ease friie toil, relief frae care; _ 
When remembrance racks the mind, 

rieasm-es but miveil despair. 

Brightest climes shall mirlc appear. 

Desert ilka blooming shore, 
Till the Fates, nae mair severe. 

Friendship, love, and peace restore 
Till Revenge, wi' Janrell'd head. 

Bring our banished hame again ; 
And ilka loyal bonnie lad _ 

Cross the sea and win his ain. 



GANE IS THE DAY. 

TvsE—Cruidwifc, Count the Lawim, 

Gane is the daj^, and mirks the night, 
But we'll ne'er stray for fau't o' light ; 
For ale and l^randy's stars and moon, 
And bluid-red wine's the rising svin. 

Then guidwife, count the lawin. 
The lawin, the lawin ; 

Then guidwife, count the lawin, 
And bring a coggie mair. 
There's wealth and ease for gentlemen. 
And simple folk maun fight and fen; 
But here we're a' in ae accord, 
For ilka man that's drunk's a lord. 

My coggie is a haly pool, 

That heals the wounds o' care and dool; 

And pleasure is a wanton trout, 

An ye drink but deep ye'U find liim out. 



THE TITHER MORN. 
TuKE — To a KiffJiland air. 

The tither morn, when I forlorn, 
Aneath an aik sat moaning, 

I did na trow, I'd see my jo,^ 
Beside me, gain the gloaming. 



ir IS HA, JKAN, TUT BONNIE FACB. 445 

But he s:ve tri;^, liip o'er the rig, 

And ihxwtiiigly did cheer lue. 
When I, what reck, did least cxpec* 

To see my hid so near me. 

His bonnet he, a tiiought ajec, 

Cock'd sprush when first he clasp'd ma^ 
And I, I wat, wi' iainness grat, 

Wliile in his grips he press'd me. 
Deil tak the war I hite and air, 

Ha'e wish'd since Jock departed ; 
But now as glad I'm wi' my lad, 

As short syne broken-hcavted. 

Fu' aft at e'en wi' dancing keen, 

When a' were blythe and merry, 
I car'd na by, sae sad was I, 

In absence o' my dearie. 
But, praise be blest, my mind's at rest 

I'm happy wi' my Johnnj- ; 
At kirk and fair, I'se aye be there, 

And be as canty's ony. 



COME BOAT ME O'ER TO CHARLIE 
Tune — O'er the Water to Charlie. 

Come boat me o'er, come row me o'er, 

Come boat me o'er to Charlie ; 
I'll gi'e John Ross another bawbee, 

To boat me o'er to Charlie. 

"We'll o'er the water and o'er the sea, 
We'll o'er the water to Charlie ; 

Come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go. 
And live or die wi' Charlie. 

I lo'e well mj' Charlie's name, 
Tho' some there be abhor him ; 

But, oh ! to see auld nick gaun hame, 
And Charlie's face before him ! 

I swear and vow, by moon and stars. 

And sun, that shines so early, 
If I had twenty thousand lives, 

I'd die as aft for Charlie. 



IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNIE PACB. 
Tune— 2%e Maid's Complaint. 

It is na, Jean, thy Iwnnie face, 

Nor shape that I admire, 
Altho' thy beauty and thy grace 

Might weel awake desire. 



446 BUENS'S POETICAL WOBKS. 

Something in ilka part of thee, 
To praise, to love, I find ; 

But dear as is thy form to me, 
Still dearer is thy mind. 

Nae mair ungen'rous wish I ha'e, 

Nor stronger in my hreast, 
Than if I canna male thee sae, 

At least to see thee hlost. 
Content am I, if Heaven shall give 

But happiness to thee : 
And as wi' thee I'd wish to live, 

For thee I'd bear to die. 



I HA'E A WIFE O' MY AIN. 
Tune — Naehody. 

I ha'e a wife o' my ain — 

I'll partake wi' naebody; 
I'll tak cuckold frae nane, 

I'll gi'e cuckold to naebody. 
I ha'e a penny to spend, 

There — thanks to naebody ; 
I ha'e naething to lend, 

I'll borrow frae naebody. 

I am naebody's lord — 

I'll be slave to naebody ; 
I ha'e a guid braid sword, 

I'll tak dunts fi*ae naebody 
I'll be merry and free, 

I'll be sad for naebody ; 
If naebody care for me, 

I'll care for naebody. 



WITHSDALE'S WELCOME HOMK 

The noble Maxwells and their powera 

Are coming o'er the border, 
And they'll gae bigg Terreaglo's towen 

And set them a' in order. 
And they declare Terreagle's fan, 

For their abode they chuse it ; 
There's no a heart in a' the land, 

But's lighter at the news o't. 

Tho' stars in skies may disappear 
And angry tempests gather. 

The happy hour may soon be near 
That brings us pleasant vveathe' 





MT COLLIEK LADDIE. 447 




Tbe weary ni;z:lit o' cave and grief 




^Idy lia'c a joyful morrow ; 
So datfning day lias brought relief— 
Fareweel our night o' sorrow I 


MY COLLIER LADDIE. 




Tune— T7ie Collier Laddie. 




Where live ye my bonnie lass p 
And tell me what they ca' ye; 

My name, she says, is mistress Jean, 
And I follow the Collier Laddie. 

My name she says, is mistress Jean, 
And I follow the Collier Laddie. 




See you not yon hills and dales, 
The sun shines on sac brawlie ! 

They a' are mine, and they shall be thine 
Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie, 

They a' are mine, and they shall be thine 
Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie. 




Ye shall gang in gay attire, 
Weel busket up sae gaudy ; 

And ane to wait on every hand. 
Gin ye'll leave yom* Collier Laddie. 

And ane to v.ait on every hand, 
Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie. 




Tho* ye had a' the sun shines on, 

And the c:.rth conceals sae lowly ; 
I wad turn my back on you and it a', • 

And embrace my Collier Laddie, 
I wad turn my back on you and it a', 

And embrace my Collier Laddie. 


' 


I can win my five pennies in a day. 
And spend it at night fu' brawlie; 

And make my bed in the Collier's neuk. 
And lie down wi' my Collier T/addie, 

And make my bed in the Collier's neuk. 
And lie down wi' my Collier Laddie. 




Luve for luve is the bargain for me, 
The' the wee cot-house should hand me; 

Aid the world before me to win my bread. 
And fair fa' my Collier Laddie. 

And the world before me to win mj-^ bread. 
And fair fa' my Colher Laddie. 



448 BUENS'S POETICAL WORKS. 

AS I WAS A- WANDERING. 
Tune — Einn Meudial mo MJiealladh. 

kA I was a-wandering, ane midsummer e'enia', 
The pipers and youngsters were making their game; 

Amang them I spied my faithless t'ause lover, 
Which bled a' the wounds o' my dolour again. 

Weel, since he has left me, my pleasure gae wi' him ; 

I may he distress'd, but I winua complain, 
I flatter my fancy I may get anither, 

My heart it shall never be broken for ane. 

I couldna get sleeping till dawin for greetin'. 
The tears trickled down like the hail and the rain; 

Had I na got greetin', my heart wad a broken, 
For oh ! love forsaken's a tormenting pain. 

Although he has left me for greed o' the siller, 
I dinna envy him the gains he can win ; 

I rather wad bear a' the lade o' my soitow 
Than ever ha'e acted sae faitliless to him. 



YE JACOBITES BY NAME. 

Tune — Ye Jacobites hy name. 

Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear, give an ear ; 
Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear; 
Ye Jacobites by name, 
Your fautes I will proclaim. 
Your doctrines I maun blame — 
Y'ou sliall Itear. 

Wliat is right and what is wrang, by the law, by the law 
What is right and what is wrang by the law? 
What is right and what is wrang by the law ? 
A short sword and a lang, 
A weak arm, and a Strang 
V For to draw. 

What makes heroic strife fam d atar, fam'd afar? 
What makes heroic strife fam'd afar ? 
What makes heroic strife ? 
To whet th' assassin's knife. 
Or hunt a parent's life, 
Wi' bluidie v.'.Vx. 

Then let your schemes alone, in the state, in the state ; 
Then let your schemes alone in the state j 
Then let your schemes alone, 
Adore the rising sun, 
And leave a man undone 
To his fate. 



JOCEKY's TA'EN TUJ: rAItXlNG KI38. 449 

LADY MARY ANN. 

Tune — Craigtowns Qrowing. 

Oh, Lady Mary Ami looked o'er the ca.stle \va* ; 
She savv three bonnie boys playing at the ba'; 
The youngest he was tlio jlowcr ainang them a'— 
My bouuie laddie's young, but he's growin' yet. 

Oh father! oh father ! an ye think it fit, 
We'll send him a year to the college yet : 
We'll sew a green ribbon round about his hat, 
And that will let them keu he's to marry yet. 

Lady Mary Ann was a liower i' the dew, 
Sweet was its smell, and bonnie was its hue ; 
And the langer it blossom'd the sweeter it grew : 
For the lily in the bud will be bonnier j'et. 

Young Charlie Cochrane was the sprout of an aik; 
Bonnie and l)loomin' and stranght was its make, 
The sun took deliglit to shine for its sake. 
And it will uo the brag o' tiie forest yet. 

The simmer is gane wlieu the leaves they were green. 
And the days are awa that we ha'e seen ; 
But far better days I trust will come again. 

For my bonnie laddie's young, but he's growin 3'et. 



OUT OVER THE FORTH. 
TuKE — Charlie Goi'dons Welcome Hame, 

Out over the Forth I took to the north, 

But what is the north and its Highlands to me ? 

The soutli nor the cast gi'os ease to my breast. 
The far foreign land, or the wild-rolling sea. 

But I look to the west when I gae to rest, 

Tliat hapiw my dreams and my slumbers may be { 

For far in the west lives he I lo'e best. 
The lad that is dear to my babie and me. 



JOCKEY'S TA'EN THE PARTING KISS. 
TuKE — Jockey 6 ta'en the Farting Kis*. 

Jockey's ta'en tne parting kiss, 
O'er the mountains he's gane ; 

And within him is a my bliss. 

Nought but griefs with me remain. 

29 2o3 



460 liUii^'S'S i'UKTICAL WOIIKS, 

Spare mj* Inve, ye v.'inds that blaw, 
Plashy sleets and beating rain I 

Spare my luve, thou leathery snaw, 
Drifting o'er the frozen phiin. 

When the shades of evening creep 

O'er the day's fair, ghadsome e'e, 
Sound and safely may he sleep, 

Sweetly blythe hi? waukening b« 
He will think on hei he loves, 

Fondly he'll repeat her nanae; 
For where'er he distant roves, 

Jockey's heart is still at hame. 



THE CARLES 0' DYSARl. 
Tune — Mey ca thro\ 

Up wi' the carles o' Dysart, 
And the lads o' Buckhaven, 

And the kimmers o' Largo, 
And the lasses o' Leven. 

Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro'. 
For we ha'e niickle ado ; 

Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro'. 
For we ha'e niickle ado. 

VVe ha'e tales to teil. 

And we ha'e sangs to sing ; 
And we ha'e pennies to spend. 

And we ha'e pints to bring. 

We'll live a' our days. 

And them that come behin*, 
Let them do the like. 

And spend the gear they win 



LADY ONLIE. 

Tune — The Bujftans Bant, 

A* the lads o' Thornie-bank, 

When they gae to the shore o' Bucky, 
They'll step in and tak a pint 
Wi' Lady Onhe, honest Lucky ! 
Lady Onhe, honest Lucky, 

Brews good ale at shore o' Bncky i 
I wish her sale for her guid ale, 
The best on a' the shore of Bucky. 



W.VT. l'"Oll BOOT. <k61 



Her house sae oicti, her curch sae clean, 

1 wat she is a dainty fhiiclcy ; 
And cheerhe blinks tlie inj^l'^'-file^-'*! 
Of Lady Onlio, hoiiost Lucky ! 
Lady OnUo, honest Lucky, 

Jkews ijuid ale at shore o' Bucky ; 
I \nsh her sale ibr her guid ale, 
The best on a' the shore o' iJucky 



YOUNG JAMIE, PRIDE OP A' THE PLAQT. 

Tune — The Carlin o' the Glen. 

Young Jamie, pride of a' the plain, 
Sae gallant and sac gay a swain. 
Thro' a' our lasses he did rove. 
And reign'd resistless king of love : 
But now with sighs and starting tears, 
He strays amang the woods and briers ; 
Or in the glens and rocky caves 
His sad complaining dowie raves. 

I, wha sae late did range and rove. 
And chang'd with every moon my love, 
I little thought the time was near, 
Repentance I should bu}' sae dear : 
The slighted maids my torment see, 
And laugh at a' the pangs I dree ; 
While she, my cruel, scornfu' fair 
Forbids me e'er to see her mair! 



JENNY'S A' WAT, POOR BODY 

Tune — Coming thro* the Bye. 

Coming thro' the rye, poor body. 

Coming through the rye, 
She drajglet a' her petticoatie. 
Coming thro' the rye. 

Jenny's a' wat, poor body, 

Jenny's seldom dry ; 
She draiglet a' her petticoatie, 
Coming through the rye. 

fiiu a bodi' meet a body 

Coming thro' the rye, 
Gin a body kiss a body, 

Need a body cry ? 

Gin a body meet a body 

Coming thro' the glen. 
Gin a body kiss a body 

Need the warld ken ? 



452 BUBNS'S POETICAL WOEKS, 

THE CARDIN' O'T. 

Tune — Salt-Jlsh and DumpUnffa. 

I COPT a stane o' haslock woo', 

To make a vvat to Johnny o't ; 
For Johnny is my onl^f jo, 
I lo'e him best of ony yet. 

The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't, 

The warpin' o't, the winnin' o'tj 
When ilka ell cast me a groat, 
The tailor staw the linin' o't. 

For tlio' his locks be Ij^art grey, 
And though his brow be held aboonj 

Yet I ha'e seen him on a day, 
The pride of a' the parishen. 



TO THEE, LOVED NITH. 

To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains, 
Where late wi' careless thought I rangX 

Tho' prest wi' care and sunk in woe, 
To thee I bring a heart unchang'd. 

I love thee, Nith, thy banks and braes, 
Tho' mem'ry there my bosom tear; 

For there he rov'd that brake my heart. 
Yet to that heart, ah ! still how dear ! 



SAE FAR AWA. 
Tune — Dalkeith Ilaiden Bridge. 

Oh, sad and heavy should I part, 

But for her sake sae far awa. 
Unknowing what my way may thwart 

My native land sae far awa. 
Thou that of a' things Maker art, 

That form'd this fair sae far awa, 
Gi'e body strength, then I'll ne'er start 

At this my way sae far awa. 

How true is love to pixre desert. 

So love to her, sae far awa : 
And noclit can heal ray bosom's smart, 

While, oh ! she is sae far awa. 
Nane other love, nane other dart, 

I feel but her's, sae far awa ; 
But fairer never touch'd a heart 

Than her's, the fair sae ftir awa. 



XHB niGULANU LADDIB, 453 

WAE IS MY HEi^HT. 

Tune — Wae is my Heart. 

Wae is mj' heart, and the tear's in my e'e; 
Lang, lanj?, JDy's licen a stranger to me : 
Forsaken and friendless, niy burden I bear 
And the sweet voice of pity ne'er sounds in ray ear. 

Love, i\\o\\ hast pleasures, and deep ha'e I loved : 
Love, thou hast sorrows, and sair ha'e I prov'd : 
But this bruised heart tbat now bleeds in my breast, 
I can feel that its throbl)ings will soon be at rest. 

Oh, if I were happy where happy I ha'e been, 
Down by yon stream, and yon bonnie castle-green ; 
For there he is wand'ring, and musing on me, 
Wha wad soon dry the tear frae Phillis's e'e. 



AMANG THE TREES. 
TuKE — The King of Trance he rade a Bace, 

Amang- the trees where humming bees 

At buds and flowers were hinging, 0, 
Auld Caledon drew out her drone, 

And to her pipe was singing, ; 
'Twas pibroch, sang, strathspey, or reels, 

She dirl'd them afffu' clearly, 0, 
When there cam a yell o' foreign squeeLs, 

That dang her tapsalterie, 0. 

Tlieir capon craws, and queer ha, ha's, 

They made our lugs grow eerie, j 
The hungry bike did scrape and pike 

Till we were wae and weary, 0. 
But a royal ghaist, wha ance was cased, 

A prisoner aughteen year awa, 
He fir'd a fiddler in the north 

That dang them tapsalterie, O. 



THE HIGHLAND LADDIE. 
TvSE—IftJwirUjylay me Fair Plojf, 

The bonniest lad that e'er I saw, 
Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie. 

Wore a plaid, and was fu' braw, 
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie; 

His loyal heart was firm and time, 
Bbnnie Highland laddie. 



i51 BtrKNS S POETICAL W0RK3. 

Trumpets soxmd, and cannons roar, 

Bonnie lassie, Lowland lassie ; 
And a' the hills wi' echoes roar, 

Bonnie Lowland lassie. 
Glory, honour, now in\'ite, 

Bonnie lassie, Lowland lassie, 
For freedom and my king to light, 

Bonnie Lowland lassie. 

The sun a backward course shall taka^ 

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, 
'Ere aught thy manly courag-e shako, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 
Go ! for yourself procure renown, 

Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie ; 
And for your lawful king and crown, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 



BANNOCKS 0' BARLEY. 
Tune — The Killogie. 

Bannocks o' bear meal, 

Bannocks o' barley, 
Here's to the Highlandman'a 

Bannocks o' barley. 
Wha in a brulzie 

Will first cry a parley ? 
Never the lads wi' 

The bannocks o' barley. 

Bannocks o' bear meal, 

Bannocks o' barley ; 
Here's to the lads wi' 

The bannocks o' barley ! 
Wha in his wae-days 

Were loyal to Charlie ? 
Wlia but the lads wi' 

The bannocks o' barley ? 



ROBIN SHURE IN HAIRST. 

CHOSUS. 

RoBiK sliure in hairst, 

I shure wi' him ; 
Fient a heuk had I, 

Yet I stuck by him. 

I gaed up to Duase, 

To warp a web o' plaiden j 

At his daddie's yett, 
Wha met me but Robin? 



hebb's a. bottle; and an uonesi tkibno. 4)55 

Was na Robia bauld, 

Tliougl) I was a cotter, 
Play'd uie sic a trick, 

And mc the ellcr's dochter? 

Robin promis'd ine 

A' ray winter vittel : 
Fient hael he had l)ut three 

Goose feathers and a wittle. 



SWEETEST MAY. 

Sweetest May, let love inspire thee; 
Take a heart which he desires thee ; 
As thy constant slave regard it ; 
For its faith and truth reward it. 

Proof o' shot to birth or njoney. 
Not the wealthy but the bonuic; 
Not high-born, but noble-minded 
In love's silken band can bind it. 



THE LASS OF ECCLEFECHAN. 

Tune — JacJc^ Latin, 

Gat ye me, oh gat ye me, 

Oh gat ye me wi' naething, 
Rock and reel, and spinnin' wheel, 

A mickle quarter basin. 
Bye attour, my gutchcr has 

A hich house and a laigh ane, 
A' forbye my bounie sel'. 

The lass of Ecclefechan. 

Oh baud your tongue now, Luckie Laing, 

Oh baud your tongue and jannier; 
I held the gate till you I met, 

Syne I began to wander : 
I tint my whiolle and my sang, 

I tint my peace and pleasure ; 
But your green graff, now, Luckie Laing, 

Wad airt me to my treasure. 



HERE'S A BOTTLE AND AN HONEST PRIENBk 

Here's a bottle and an honest friend, 

Whawad ya wish for mair, man? 
Wha kens, before his life may end, 

What his share may be o' care, man ? 



466 BLiiiS's"5 rOETICAIi \70KK3. 

Then catch the moments as they fly, 
And use thorn as ye ought, man : — • 

Beheve me, happiness is shy, 
And comes na aye when sought, man. 



ON A PLOUGHMAN. 

As I was a-wand'ring ane morning in spring, 

I heard a young ploughman sae sweetly to sing ; 

And as he was singing these words, he did say, 

There's na hfe hke the ploaghmau's in the month o' sweet May, 

The lav'rock in the morning she'll rise trae her nest, 

And mount to the air wi' the dew on her hreast, 

And wi' the merry plouglinian she'll whistle and sing, 

And at night slio'll return to her n(;st back again. 



THE WEARY PUND 0' TOW. 
Tune— T//ii ll'cart/ Fund o' Tow. 
Tuv. weary \nun\, the wear}' pund, 

The weary pund o' tow ; 
I think my wife will end her life 
Before she spin her tow. 

I bought my wife a stane o' lint, 

As guid as e'er did grow ; 
And a' that she has made o' that. 

Is ane poor pund o' tow. 

There sat a bottle in a bole, 

Bej'ont the ingle lowe, 
Aaid aye she took the tither souk, 

To drouk the stowrie tow. 

Quoth I, for shame, ye dirty dame, 

Gae spin your tap o' tow ! 
She took the rock, and wi' a knock 

She brak it o'er my pow. 

At last her feet — I sang to see't— 
Gaed foremost o'er the knowe ; 

And 'ere I wad anither jad, 
I'll wallop in a tow. 



THE LADDIES BY THE BANKS 0' NITH. 
TcNB—- ZTp and waur them a\ 

The laddies by the banks o' Nith, 
Wad trust his Grace wi' a', Jamie, 

But he'll sair them as he sair'd the king. 
Turn tail and riu awa, Jamie. 



EPianAMS. 457 



Cp and wauv them :i* Jamie^ 

Up anil waur them a' ; 
The Johnstoncs ha'e the guidin' o't. 

Ye turnwat whigs, awa. 

Tlio day ho stude his country's fiiend, 
Or gied her laes a chiw, Jamie, 

Or frae puir inau a hlcssiu' wan, 

That day tlic duke ne'er saw-, Jamie. 

But wha is he, his country's l)oast ? 

Like liim there is iia twa, Jamie; 
There's no caUaut tents the kye, 

But kens o' Westerha', Jamie. 

To end this wavk, here's Whistlehirck, 
Lang may his whistle Waw, Jamie; 

And Maxwell true o' sterling blue, 
And we'll be Johnstoues a', Jamie. 



d^CT^^^^^^t fe- 



ON CAPTAIN GROSE, 

THE CELEBRATED ANTIQUARY. 

The Devil got notice that Gkose ivas a-dying, 

So whip ! at the summons, old Satin came flying ; 

But when ho approach'd where poor Fkancis lay moaning. 

And saw each bed-post with, its burden a-groaning, 

Astonish'd, confounded, cried Satan, " By • 

I'll want 'ira, 'ere I take such a damnable load,' 



ON A HENPECKED COUNTRY SQUIRE 

On death, hfcdst thou but spar'd hh life^ 

Whom we this day lament, 
We freely wad cxchang'd the wife, 

And a' been weel content. 

E'en as he is, cauld in his graff, 

The swap we yet will do't ; 
Tak thou the carlin's carcaiie aff. 

Thou'se get the saul to boot. 



ap 



458 BURNS S POETICAL -WOEKS. 

ANOTHER ON HIS WIDOW. 

One Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell, 
When deprived of her husband she loved so well, 
In respect for the love and affaction he shovv'd her, 
She reduc'd him to dust, and she drank of!" the powder. 
But Queen Netherplace, of a different complexion. 
When call'd on to order the fun'ral direction, 
Would have ate her dead lord, on a slender pretence, 
Not tc show her respect, but— to save the expense ! 



ON ELPHINSTONE'S 

TRANSLATIONS OF MARTIAL'S EPIGRAMS. 

Oh thou, whom poesy abhors, 
Wliom prose has tiu'ued out of doors, 
Heard'st thou that groan — proceed no further; 
'Twas laurelled Martial roaring murther I 



ON MISS J. SCOTT, OF AYR. 
Oh ! had each Scot of ancient times. 
Been Jeant Scott, as thou art, # 
The bravest heart on English ground 
Had yielded like a coward. 



ON AN ILLITERATE GENTLEMAN, 

WHO HAD A FINE LIBRAEY. 

'^'bbe through the leaves, ye maggots, make your windings 
But for the owner's sake, oh spare the bindings ! 



WRITTEN 
under the picture op miss burns. 

Cease, ye prudes, your envious railing;?. 

Lovely Burns has charms- 
True it is, she had one faihng — 

Had a woman ever less ? 



WRITTEN 

OW A WINDOW OP THE INN AT CAREOH. 

We cam na here to view your warks 

In hopes to be mair vnse ; 
But only, lest we gang to hell, 

It may be nae surprise : 

But whan we tirled at your door, 
Your porter douglit na hear us ; 

Sae may, should we to hell's yetts come, 
Your biUy Satan sair us ! 



EPIGRAMS. 

WRITTEN ON A PANE OF GLASS 

IN THE INN AT MOFFAT. 

Ask why Cuxl made tli.> yein so small, 
And why so hujro tlif; f^ranite ? 

Because God meant mankind should set 
The higher vahio on it, 



460 



FRAGMENT. 

Tnou black-headed eagle 

As keen as a beagle, 
He hunted owre height and owro howej 

But fell in a trap 

On the braes of Gemappe, 
E'en let him come out as he dowe. 



ON INCIVILITY SHEWN HIM AT INVERNABY. 

Whoe'er he be that sojourns here, 

I pity much his case, 
Unless he come to wait upon 

The Lord their God, his Grace. 

There's naething here but Highland prid(^ 

And Plighland scab and hunger; 
If Providence has sent me here, 

'Twas surely in His anger. 



HIGHLAND HOSPITALITY. 

When Death's dark stream I ferry o'er, 
A time that surely shall come. 

In Hea\'en itself Fll ask no more. 
Than just a Highland welcome. 



LINES ON MISS KEMBLE. 

Kemble, thou cur'st my unbelief. 

Of Moses and his rod ; 
At Yarico's sweet notes of grief 

The rock with tears had ilow'd. 



ON THE KIRK AT LAMINGTON. 

A ceuld day December blew, 
A cauld kirk, and in't but few ; 
A caulder minister never spak — 
Tliey'U a' be warm 'ere I come back. 



BUEXS S POETICAL WORKS, 

THE SOLEMN LEAGUE AND COVENANT. 

The solemn League and Covenant 

Cost Scotland blood — cost Scotland tears ; 

But it seal'd freedom's sacred cause — 
If tlxou'rt a slave, indulge thy sneers. 



ON A CERTAIN PARSON'S LOOKS^ 

That there is falsehood in his looks 

1 must and will deny ; 
Thej'' say their master is a knave — 

And sure they do not lie. 



ON SEEING THE BEAUTIFUL SEAT OP THK 
EARL OF * * * * ^. 
What dost thou in that mansion fair ? — • 

Flit, * * * *, and Hnd 
So'aie narrow, dirty, dvmgeon cave, 
The picture of thy mind ! 



ON THE EARL OF * * * « 
No Stewart art thou, * * * * 

The St*3warts all were brave ; 
Besides, the Stewarts were but fools, 

Not one 01 them a knave. 



On the Same. 

Bbig-ht ran thy line, oh * * * * 
Thro' many a far-fam'd sire ! 

So ran the far-fam'd Roman way. 
So ended in a mire. 



On the Same. 

OJT THE AUTHOR BEING- THREATENED "WITH HI8 
VENGEANCE. 

Spare me thv vengeance, * * * ^^ 

In quiet Jet me live ; 
I ask no kindness at tliy hand, 

For thou hast none to aive. 



ON AN EMPTY FELLOVv^ 

WKO IN COMPANY engrossed THE CONVERSATION 'WITB 
AN ACCOUNT OP HIS GREAT CONNEXIONS. 

No more of your titled acquaintances boast. 
And what nobles and gentles you've seen j 

An insect is stiU but an insect at most, 
The' it crawl on the curl of a Queen ! 



EPTOUAMS. 4.31 

WRITTFN ON A PANE OF GLASS, 

On the occasion of a National Thanhsgiving for a Naval 
Victory, 
Ye nj'pocrites ! are those your pranks ? — 
To murder men, and gi'e God tlianks ! 
For shame ! gi'e o'er, proceed no further — 
God won't accept your thanks fur murthor ! 



TFIE TRUE LOYAL NATIVES. 
Ye true " Loyal N;»tives," attend to my song, 
In uproar and riot rejoice the night long ; 
From envy and hatred 3-onr corps is exempt. 
But where is your shield from tlic darts of contempt? 



INSCRIPTION ON A GOBLET. 

There's death in the cup — sae beware ! 

Nay more — there is danger in touching ; 
But wlia can avoid the fell snare ? 

The man and his wine's so bewitchine: ! 



extemi-'ore ox y,u syme. 

No more of your guests, be they titled or not* 
And cookery t]w first in ttie nation; 

Who is proof to tliy pei-sonai co!! verse and wit 
Is proof to all otiier teniiitiitiou. 



TO MR. 8YME. 

WITH A PKESENT OP A DOZEN OF POETEB 

Oh, had the malt thy strength of mind, 

Or hops the flavour of thy wit, 
'Twere drink for first of huinan kind, 



THE CREEJ) OF POVERTY. 
In politics if thou ^Yould'st mix, 

And mean thy fortunes be, 
Bear this in mind — be deaf and blind. 

Let great folk hear and see. 



\VRJTTEN IN A LADY'S POCKET-BOOK. 

Geant me, indulgent Heaven, that I may live 
To see the miscreants feel the pains they give, 
Deal freedom's sacred treasures free as air. 
Till slave and despot be but things which were. 



A gift that e'en for Symc were fit. j 



2p 



BUENS S POETICAL W0BE8. 



TO JOHN TAYLOR. 

With Pegasus upon a day, 

Apollo wearj"^ flying, 
Through frosty hills the journey lay, 

On foot the way was pljnng. 

Poor slip-shod giddy Pegasus 

Was but a sorry walker, 
To Vulcan then Apollo goes, 

To get a frosty calker. 

Obliging Vulcan fell to work, 
Threw by his coat and bonnet, 

And did Sol's business in a crack ; 
Sol paid him with a sonnet. 

Ye Vulcan's sons of Wanlockhead, 

Pity my sad disaster ; 
My Pegasus is poorly shod — • 

I'U pay 3^ou like my n:iaster. 



TO MISS FONTENELLE. 

Sweet naivete of feature, 
Simple, wild, enchanting elf, 

Not to thee, but, thanks to Nature, 
Thou art acting but thyself. 

Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected, 
Spurning nature, tortimng art ; 

Loves and graces all rejected, 
Then indeed thou'dst act a part. 



THE TOAST 

Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast — 
Here's the memory of tbose on tbe twelith that we lost ! 
That we lost", did I say ? nay, by Heaven, that we found; 
For their fame it shall last while the world goes round. 
The next in succession, I'll give you — the King ! 
Whoe'er would betray him, on high may he swing; 
And here's the grand fabric, our free Constitution, 
As built on the base of the great Revolution ; 
And longer with politics not to be cranim'd. 
Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Tyranny damn'd ; 
And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal. 
May his son be a hangman, and be his first trial. 



EXCISEMAN UNIVERSAL. 

■written on a window. 

Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this sneeriny 
'Gainst poor Excisemen ? givft the cause a heawag x 



EriGUAMs. 4G3 

What ai-e your landlords' rent-rolls ? tcazv.io- lodgers : 
What preiiiiers — wliat? even iiioiuirchs' miglity gangers: 
Nay, what are priests, tliose soeiniiig godly wise meu ? 
What are tae^', pray, but spiritual Excisemen ? 



TO DR. MAXWELL, 

on MISS JESST STAIG's BECOVEET. 

]^Iaxwell, if merit here you crave, 

That merit 1 deny — 
You save fair Jessy from the grave ! 

An angel could not die. 



ON JESSY LEWARS. 

Talk not to me of savages 

From Afric's bn.rniiig sun ; 
No savage e'er could rend my heart. 

As, Jessj'-, thou hast done. 
But Jessy's lovely hand in mine, 

A mutual faith to plight. 
Not even to view the heavenly choir 

Would be so blest a sight. 



Toast to the Same. 

Fill me with rosy wme. 
Call a toast — a toast divine ; 
Give the poet's darhng flame, 
Lovely Jessy be the name ; 
Then thou mayest freely boast 
Thou hast given a peerless toast. 



JEpitaph on the Same. 

Sat, sf^es, what's the charm on eart^ 
Can turn death's dart aside ? 

It is not purity' and worth, 
Else Jessy had not died. 

To the Same. 

But rarely seen since Nature's birth, 

The natives of the sky ; 
Yet still one seraph's left on earth, 

For Jessy did not die. 



GRACES BEFORE MEAT. 

Some ha'e meat, and canna eat, 
And some would eat that want it. 

But we ha'e meat, and we can eat, 
Sae let the Lord be than kit- 



A64 BURNS'S POEliCAl WOEK.8. 

Oh Thou, who kindly dost provide 
For every creature's want I 

We bless Thee, Gcxl of Nature wide, 
For all thy goodness lent.: 

And, if it please Thee, heavenly Guid^ 

May never worse be sent : 
But whether granted or denied, 

Lord, bless us with content ! Amen ! 



Oh Thou, in whom we live and movfc. 

Who mad'st the sea and shore ; 
Thy goodness constantly we prove, 

And grateful would adore. 
And if it please Thee, Power abov^ 

Still grant us, with such store, 
The friend we trust, the fair we love^ 

And we desire no more. 



iSpita^Ijs. 



ON THE AUTHOR'S FATHER. 
Oh ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains, 

Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend ! 
Here he the loving husband's dear remains, 

The tender father, and the gen'rous friend. 
The pitying heart that felt for human woe ; 

The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride 
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe ; 

" For ev'n his faihngs lean'd to virtue » 3ide." 



ON A HENPECK'D COUNTRY SQUIRE. 

As father Adam was fool'd, 
A case that's still too common, 

Hert- lies a man a woman rul'd. 
The devil rul'd the woman. 



ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER 
Hebe souter Hood in death does sleep- 
To hell, if he's gane thither, 
Satau gi'e him the gear to keep 
He'll hand it weel thesither 



460 



ON A NOISY POLEMIC. 

Bblow these stanes lie Jamie's banes; 

Oh Deiith, it's my o])iiiioii 
Thou ne'er took such :i bk^th'riii hitch 

Into thy d;irk dominion ! 



ON WEE JOHNNY. 

niC JACET WEE JOHNNT. 

Whoe'er thou art. oh reader, know, 
That death has murdcr'd Johnny I 

And here his body hes I'u' low — 
For saul he ne'er had ouy. 



ON JOHN DOVE, 

INNKEEPEE, MArCHLINB. 

Heee lies Johnny Pidgeon ! 
What was his religion ? 

Wha e'er desires to ken. 
To some other warl' 
Mann follow the carl, 

For here Johnny Pidgeon had uaneK 

Strong ale was ablution — 
Small beer, persecution, 

A dram was memento mori • 
But a full tlowing: bowl 
Was the joy of his soul, 

And port was celestial glory. 



FOR ROBERT AIKIN, ESQ. 

Know thou, oh stranger to the fame 
Of this much lov'd, much honoured name' 
(For none that knew him need be told) 
A warmer heart death ne'er made cold. 



ON A FRIEND. 

An honest man here lies at rest 
As e'er God with his image blest ! 
The fi'iend of man the friend of truth; 
The friend of age, and guide of youth ; 

Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd. 
Few heads with knowledge so inforra'd ; 
If there's another world, he lives in bliss; 
If there is none, ho made the best of this. 



30 



46& BUUNs's POETICAL WOKKS. 

FOR GAVIN HAMILTON. 

Tub poor man weeps— here Gavin sleepa^ 
"\¥hom canting wretclics blam'd : 

Bui; with such as he, where'er he be, 
May I be sav'd or damn'd ! 



ON WAT. 

SiO_a reptile was Wat, 

Sic a miscreant slave, 
That the very worms damn'd him 

When laid in his grave. 
" In his flesh there's a famine," 

A stai'v'd reptile cries ; 
" And his heai-t is rank poison, '' 

Another replies.. 



ON A SCHOOLJlIASTER, . 

IN CLEISH PARISH, FIFESHIBB. 

Here lie Willie Michie's banes, 
Oh Satan, when ye tak liim, 

Gi'e him the schoolin' of your weans; 
For clever deils he'll mak 'em ! 



ON MR. W. CRUICKSHANKa 
Honest Weill's to Heaven gane, 

And mony shall lament him ; 
His faults they a' in Latin lay, 

In Englisli nane e'er kent thenu 



FOR WILLIAM NICOL. 
Yb maggots feed on Nicol's brain, 

For few sic feasts you've gotten ; 
You've got a prize o' Willie's heart. 

For deil a bit ot's rotten. 



ON W . 

Stop thief ! dame Nat\ire cried to Deatliff 
As WilUe drew his latest breath ; 
You have my choicest model ta'en 
How shall I make a fool again ? 

On the Same. 

Rest g;ently, turf, upon his breas't, 
His chicken heart's so tender ; — 
But rear huge castles on his head, 
His skull will prop them nnder. 



tl'iTAIMlS. 



ON GABRIEL RICHARDSON, 

BKEWEK, DUMFEIES. 

Here Brewer Gii!)ri(.rs fire's extinct, 
And empty all his barrels ; 

tie's blest— if as he hrew'd he u-Ixi'i-. 
In upright honest morals. 



4G7 



ON JOHN BUSHBY, 

WHITEK, DUMFEIES. 

Here lies John Bnshhy, honest man I 
Cheat him, devil, if you can. 



ON THE POET'S DAITGIIT'EII. 

Here lies a rose, a buddinjj ros©. 

Blasted before its bloom ; 
Whose iniiocence did sweets disclose 

Beyond that flower's perfume. 

To those who for her loss are griev'd, 

This consolation's given — 
She's from this vforld of woe reliev'd, 

And blooms a rose in Heaven. 



ON A PICTURE, 

REPRESENTING JACOb's DREAM, 

Dear , I'll gi'e you some advice^ 

You'll tak it no uncivil : 
You shouldna ])aint at angels mair, 

But try and paint the d— 1. 

To paint an angel's kittle wark, 
^i' auld Nick there's less dangmi 

~l!»*."!J easy draw a weei-kent fe% 
But sSi «ae weel a strftriggf. 



glotts ta tlje |]0cms. 



Pago 111. The Doath o/*Prwrlfrt(7/e.— According to Gilboit 
barns, tliis poem may be dated anteriorly to 1781. The sub- 
joined is his accoinit of the circumstance of which tliese lines 
are a ftvithful record : — " Robert had, partly Ity way of frolic, 
bought an ewe and two lambs from a neii^hljour, and she wa?; 
tethered in a field adjoining the house at Lochlee. lie and I 
were going out with our teams, and our two younger brothers 
to drive for us, at midday, when Hugh Wilson, (the Ktighoc o\ 
the poem, who was a neighbouring farmer's herdmate,) a curi- 
ous-looking, awkward boy, clad in plaiding, came up to us, with 
much anxiety in his face, with the information that the ewe 
had entangled herself in the tether, and was lying in the ditch, 
llobert was much tickled witli Hughoc's appearance and pos- 
•tures on the occasion. Poor Mailie was set to rights, and when 
we returned from the plough in the evening, he repeated to me 
her death and dying words, pretty much in the way they now 
stand." 

Page 114. 'Epistle to Davie.— This Davie was Mr. David 
Sillar, of whom we have had occasion to speak as a brother 
rhymster of Burns. He was one of the intimates of the Batche- 
lor's Club, at Tarbolton, to which he had been introdiiced in 
1788. In his subsequent career he became connected with the 
borough of Irvine, first as a teacher, and afterwards as a Bailie ; 
and he survived to the advanced age of seventy years. He died 
on the 2nd of May, 1830. 

Page 114. Is only hut to leg. The tolerated beggar was a 

species of travelling historian, traditionist, bard, or jester, ac- 
cording to the humour of his respective audiences, and he was 
expected to earn the bounty of his hearers by entertaining them. 

Piige 116. Te liae your Meg. —11%^, or, more properly, Mar- 
garet Orr, of v.'liom Burns speaks so familiarly,) was nui'sery- 
raaid in the establishment of Mrs. Stewart, of Stair. In Sillar's 
visits to his Meg, he was not unfrequently accompanied by 
Burns, who would supply verses for the songs of other female 
servants ; some of these accidentally fell, in manuscript, into the 
hands of ^Irs. Stewart, who was so struck with their beauty, 
that she desired that, upon his next visit, the author should be 
presented to her. He was accordingly introduried, and Mrs. 
Stewart is numbered amongst the lirst frienils whom Bunis's 
genius had secured amongst those of superior rank. 

Page 119. Lang syne, in JSdens happy yard. — The original 
nwtuuscript affords the subjoined version of these lines : 



470 NOTES TO THE POEMS. 

Lang syne in Eden's happy scene, 
When strapping Adam's days were greeilj 
And Eve was like my bonnie Jean, 

My dearc>t part, 
A dancin' sweet, young, liandscnio quean, 

0' guileless heart. 

Page 122. Halloween. — The author's own notes have been 
appended to the references throughout this poem ; not but that 
the spells of this characteristic festival are now very generally 
understood. " It is thought to he a night when all the super- 
human beings who people space, and earth, and air, in search of 
mischief, revel at miduight ; and it is also a grand anniversary 
of the more beneticent tribe of fairies, whose occupation is to 
baffle each evil genius in his wicked pursuit. R. B. 

Page 123. Their stocLs maun a' he sought ance. — The first 
ceremony of Halloween is, pulling each a s'tocl: or plant of kail. 
They must go out lur.d in hand, with eyes shut, and pull tlis 
first they meet with ; its l)eing big or little, straight or crooked, 
is proplietic of the size and shape of the gyind object of all their 
spells — the husljaud or wife. If any ijird, or earth, stick to the 
root, that is tocher^ or fortune ; and the taste of the ciistoc, or 
heart of the stem, is indicative of the natural temper or dispo- 
sition. Lastly, the stems, or, as they are called, the runts, are 
placed above the cornice of the door ; and the Christian names 
of those whom chance l)rings into the house, are, according to 
the order in which the runts were placed, the luimes in question. 

Page 123. Andpou their stalks o' corn. — They go to the barn- 
yard, and pull each, at three several times, a stalk of oats. If 
the third stalk wants a top pickle, or grain at the top of tho 
Btalk, the lady will be wedded, but not a maid. R. B. 

Page 123. When ktii tiling in the fause-hotise. — When tho 
corn is in a doubtful state, by being too green, or wet, the stack- 
builder, bj' means of old timber, &c., makes a large apartment 
in his stack, with an opening in the side which is fairest exjwsed 
to the wind ; this he calls a fause-house. 

Page 123, The auld guidivife's well-hoordet nits. — Burning 
the nuts is a famous charm. They name the lad and lass to 
each particular nut, asthey lay them in the fire, and accordingly 
as they burn quietly together, or start from beside one another, 
the course and issue of the courtship will be. R. B. 

Page 124. And in the hlue-elue throws then. — "Whoever 
would, with success, try this spell, must strictly observe these 
directions : — Steal out, all alone, to the kiln, and, darkling, throw 
into the pot a clue of blue yarn : wind it in a clue off the old one, 
and, towards the latter end, something will hold the thread; 
demand " Wha bauds ? " that is, who holds ? An answer will 
be returned from the kiln-pot, by naming the Christian and 
surname of your luture spouse. R. B, 

Page 124. Vll eat the apple at the glass. — Take a candle, and 
go alone to a looking-glass ; eat an apple before it, and some 
traditions say, j'ou should comb your l.an* all the time ; the face 
of your conjugal companion, to be, will be seen in the glass, as 
peeping over your shouldex*. 



(Lzr^ 



frOTES TO THE ^g>EMS. 471 

Page 125. Ife gat hemp-seed, T mind it iced. — Stea^. out, 
nnperceivcv^, uiul sow a liaiuirulot'liempseod, liiuTowini,^ it with 
anything you can conveniently draw after you. Rei)eat, now 
and then, " Ilemp-seed I saw tlico ; hemp-seed I saw thee ; and 
Iiini (or her) that is to l^e my true love, come after me and i>ou 
thee." Look over your left shoulder, and you will see the 
appearance of the person invoked, in the attitude of pulling 
' hemp. fcJomc traditions say, " Come after me, and shaw thee," 
that is, show thyself: in which case it sinipl}' appears. R. B. 

Page 126. Meg fain wad to the ham ha'e gaen. — This chann 
must likewise be performed unperceived and alone. You go to 
the barn, and open both doors, taking them of!" the hinges, if 
possible; for there is danger that the being about to appear may 
shut the doors and do you some mischief. Then take tliat instru-. 
mentused in winnowing the corn, which, in our country dialect, 
we call a wccht, and go through all the attitudes of letting down 
corn against the wind. Repeat it three times, and the third 
time an apparition will pass through the barn, iu at the windy 
door and out at the other, having both the figure in question, 
and the appearance or retinue, marking the employment or sta- 
tion in life. Ix. B, 

Piige 126. It dancd the stack hefaddoiiit thrice. — Take an 
opportunity of going, unnoticed, to a bean-stack, and fajhom it 
three times round. The lust fathom of the last tira;7 yoa will 
catch in your arms the appearance of your future conju^&l yoke 
fellow. B,. B. 

Page 126. Where three lairds' lands met at -c lurK, — You go 
out, one or more, for this is a social spell, to a south-runr.icg 
spring or rivulet, where "three lairds' lands meet," and dip 
your left shirt sleeve. Go to bed in sight of a fire, and hang 
your v.'et sleeve before it to ^vy. Lie awake : and some time 
near midnight an apparition, having the exact figure of the 
grand object in question, will come and turn the'sleeve, as if to 
dry the other side o£ it. K. B. 

Page 127. The higgies three are ranged. — Take three dishes ; 
put clean water iu one, foul w5ter in another, leave the third 
empty : blindfold a person, and lead him to the hearth where 
the dishes are ranged. He (or she) dips the left hand — if oy 
chance in the clean water, the future husband or wife will come 
to the bar of matrimony a maid ; if in the foul, a widow ; if in 
the empty dish, it fortells with equal certainty no marriage at 
all. It is repeated three time», and every time the arrangement 
of the dishes is altered. H. B. 

Page 127. jFm' hlythe that night. — Burns has omitte*!, 
amongst the other ceremonies of Halloween, that of ducking 
for apples in tubs of water. Few of those of which the poet has 
furnished particulars are now observed. The lottery of dishes, 
the pulling kail stalks, and the ducking for apples, comprising 
the whole, or nearly the whole, of the frolicsome enchantments 
now in common observance. 

Page 138. Death and Dr. HomhooJc. — Hornbook's cai"eer 
seems to have borne out his claim to some more elevated occu- 
pation than the ownership of a shop of all wares, the dutios d 



472 iTOTjp TO THE POEMS. 

an obscure dispenser, or those of a wretched parish schoohuaster. 
Such were liis occupations at Tarbolton, where first he waa 
engaged as a teacher. He subsequently stocked a small store oi 
grocery and general wares, to which, after some poring over 
medical books, he also added the drugs in more ordinary demand. 
This last acquisition was of the more consequence, as there was 
no medical man in the place ; and Hornbook having started up 
into a medical authority, pompouslj' paraded his knowledge and ^ 
skill at a Mason meeting at Tarbolton, in the presence of Burns, 
and thus suggested this poem. Hornbook subsequently settled 
in Glasgow, and outlived the poet nearly half a centur3% 

Page 139. Andtoddlin' downon Willie s3HU. — WiUie'sMill 
v/as the name of a mill just out of the village of Tarbolton, on 
the road to Mossgiel, and on a small stream called the Faile, 
It was occupied by Mr. William Muir, an intimate fi'icnd of the 
Bnrns's, and one of the subscribers to the first Edinburgh edition 
of KolTert's poems. 

Page 154. The Jolly Beggars. — The authenticity of this poem 
lias been very erroneously doubted. It was written by Burns 
in 1785, but was not published in his own editions, probablj'- 
because he had retained no copy of it, clearly not that he thought 
it '^n^Tcrthy of him. In 1801, this piece appeai'ed in a small 
volume, published at Glasgow, by Messrs. Brash and Reid, 
under ^hc u~y;c'Jondfng title oi Poems ascribed to Robert Burns. 
All the 'iJv/'„ ricent authorities have been convinced of its au- 
thenticity, which, in fact, appears to be incontestibly established 
by ?L' s.'y'l3 : ::.i-j!. Mr. Chambers has furnished some particulars 
respecting tho incident to which it is attribiatable. The follow- 
ing is the anecdote : — 

" It is understood to have been founded on the poet's observa- 
tion of an actual scene which one night met his eye, when, in. 
company with his friends John Richmond and James Smith, 
he dropped accidentally, at a late hour, into a verj^ humble hos- 
teh-yin Maucliline, the landlady of which was a Mrs. Gibson, 
more familiarly named Poosie Nancy. After witnessing much 
jollity amongst a company who, hy day, appeared abroad as 
miserable beggars, the three young men came awaj^, Burnspro- 
fessing to have been greatly delighted with the scene, but more 
particularly with the glcesome behaviour of an old maimed sol- 
dier. In the course of a few days he recited a part of the |)ocm 
to Richmond, who has informed the present Editor, that, to tne 
best of his recollection, it contained, in its original complete 
form, songs by a sweep and a sailor, winch do not now appear. 
The landlady of the house was mother to Racer Jess, alluded to 
in the Holy Fair, and her house was at the left hand side of th« 
opening of tne Cowgate, mentioned in the same poem, and oppo- 
site to the church. An account of the house, and the characters 
who frequented it, and the scenes which used to take place in it, 
is given in Chambers's Edinburgh Journal, ISTo. 2. A litho* 
grajjhic fac-simile of the original manuscript of the JoUy Beg- 
gars has been published." 

Sir Walter Scott, with some taint of a pruderj'-, which occa- 
tionaUy exposed him to the charge of affectation, has, however 



HOTES TO TUB POEMS. 473 

been hoer.il Piiongh in his remarks on tins poem, to attach u 
defence to his own cunsiue. Subjoined is his own criticism 
f'otideni verb in : — 

" In one or two passages of the Jolli/ Begqars, the nuise haa 
slightly trespassed on decorum, where, in tiie language of Scot- 
tish song, 

* High kilted was she, 
As she gaed owre the lea.* 
Something, however, is to be allowed to the nature of the sub 
ject, and something to the education of the poet : and if from 
veneration to the names of Swift and Dryden, we tolerate the 
grossness of the one and the indelicacy of the other, the respect 
due to that of Burns maj' surely claim indulgence for a few 
light strokes of broad hnmonr." 

Page 154. Just like an aumosdish. — An allusion to the large 
wooden dish or platter, carried by mendicants in Scotland, to 
receive broken food. 

Page 161 Man teas made to mourn. — Several of the poems 
were produced for the purpose of bringing forward some favorite 
bentiment of the author. He used to remark to me, that he 
could not well conceive a more mortifying picture of human 
life than a man seeking work. In casting about in his mind 
how this sentiment might be brought forward, the Elegy, Man 
was made to Mourn, was composed. — Gilbert BcrK.>'s. 

Page 1G3. To a Mouse. — This exquisite poem was actually 
composed at the plough tail, and suggested by an incident 
which occiu'red to tho poet whilst at work. Burns was hand- 
ling the plough, and John Blane, one ol'the farm servants, (who 
many years since remembered the incident,) was driving, at the 
same time holding in his hand tlie pattle, or pettle, (a small 
wooden spud with which the ploughshare was scraped at the 
commencement of every fresh furrow,) when suddenly a mouse 
started from the furrow, and was running across the tield closely 
piirsued by Blane, pattle in hand, who had started in chase. 
Burns, however, called his driver back, and very calmly asked 
him " What hurt the mouse had done him, that he should wish 
to kill it." From that moment Burns remained moody and 
silent during the rest of the day, and woke Blane at night (for 
they were bedfellows,) to repeat to him tlie lines which the inci- 
dent of the day had suggested. 

Page 161'. The curlers quut their roaring pJaji. — Curling is 
a very boisterous game, played on the ice, when sutBciently 
strong, and which consists in the trundling of flattened, smooth 
round stones. The players are divided into sides. 

Page 164. Ben i' the spence. — The parlour of the farm-house 
at Mossgiel, namely, the only apartment besides the kitchen. 
This little apartment still exists in the state in which it was 
when the jioet described it as the scene of his vision of Coda 
*' Though in every respect humble, and partly occupied by iixed 
beds, it does not appear uncomfortable. Every consideration 
however, sinks beneath the one intense feeling, that here, within 
these four walls, warmed at this little lireplace, and Uglited by 
tlus little window, (it has but oati,) lived one of the most extra 

2a3 



i7^ KOTES TO THE POEMS. 

orclinarj'- men ; here wrote some of the m.ost celebrated poems of 
modern times. — Chambers' s Jotn'naJ, No. 93. 

Pnge 166. Sis country's savio^lr.—X\\\x(\\■ng to the great 
WiUiam Wallace, the hero of Scottish independence. 

Page 166. The chief on Sari; who glorious fell. — The Laird 
of Craigie, also, of the family of Wallace, who held the second 
command at the battle fought in 1448, on the banks of Sark, 
and gained by the Scottish troops, under Douglas, Earl of 
Ormond, and Wallace, Laird of Craigie; and in which the des- 
perate valour, and masterly skill of the latter, were chiefly in- 
Ktrumental in securing the victory. The Laird of Craigie was 
mortally wounded in the engagement. 

Page 170. The Author s earnest cry and sprayer. — Towards 
the close of the year 1785, loud complaints were made by tb.e 
Scottish distillers respecting the vexatious and oppressive nian- 
ner in which the Excise laws were enforced at their establish- 
ments — sucli rigour, they said, being exercised at the instigation 
of the London distillers, who looked with jealousy on the success 
of their northern brethren. So great was the severity of the 
Excise, that many distillers were obliged to abandon the trade, 
and the price of barley was beginning to be aftected. lUicit 
distillation was also found to be alarmingly on the increase. In 
consequence of the earnest remonstrances of the distillers, backed 
by the county gentlemen, an act was passed in the session ol 
1786, (alluded to by the Author.) wherebj' the duties on low 
wines, spirits, &c., were discontinued, and an animal tax imposed 
on stills, according to their capacity. This act gave general satis- 
faction. It seems to have been dviring the general outcry 
against fiscal oppression, at the end of 1785, or beginning of 
1786, that the poem was composed. 

Page 171. Or gab like JSoswell. — Janies Eoswell, well known 
to the party politicians of Ayrsliire, as one of the orators at their 
meetings, but better known to the world at large as the shadow 
and biographer of Dr. Johnson. 

Page 173. And drink his health in old Nanse Tinnock's. — 
A "Worthy old hostess of the Author's in Mauchline, where he 
sometimes studied pohtics over a glass of guid auld Scotch 
drink. Nanse's story was different. On seeing the poem, she 
declared that the poet had never been but once or twice in her 
house. 

Page 175. Aft clad in massy siller iveed. — The vulgar name 
of beer having been repudiated, and the more refined cognomen 
of " jile " being' substitutrd for such decoctions of malt as grace 
the tables of the great in silver tankards. 

Page 177. Thee, Ferintosh, oh sadly lost. — The Scottish Par- 
liament passed an Act, in the year 1690, empowering Forbes of 
Coiloden to distil whisky free of duty, on his manor of Ferin- 
tosh, of Cromartyshire, in consideration of his services, and of 
the losses which he had sustained in the public service at the 
period of the Revolution. The immense wealth to which such 
an immunity opened the way, gradually stimulated the succes- 
Bors of the Forbes to the distillation of so immense a quantity 
9i the spirit, that by degrees Ferintosh became a bye-woiJ 



K0TE8 TO THE POEMS. 475 

•isriiifj'iiig: \vliisl<y. This privilep:e was abolished by tlio Act of 
:he British Parliament, passed in 1785, and which regulated the 
Scotch distilleries in auncral. But a provision was reserved in 
that Act to the effect^ that the Lords of the Treasury should 
indemnify the present jn-oprietor of the barony for the immense 
deterioration of his estate, and that if the Lords of the Treasury 
should fail to settle the matter fairly, it should be submitted to 
a jury in the Scottish Court of Exchequer. Accordingly, aftor 
futile attenijjts at redress from the Treasury. ^Ir. Duncan Forbes 
prosecuted his claim, ])rovinp: that the ria:ht had actually pro- 
duced i;i,000 a-year to his family, and mi^lit have ])cen produc- 
tive of seven times as much ; and the jury awarded him the 
substantial sum of £21,580 as compensation, on the 29th of 
November, 1785. 

Page 193. Inscribed to Bohert Ail-en, lEsq. — Mr. Aiken was 
0116 of the iirst persons moving in the higher orders of society 
who noticed the remarkable talents of Robert Burns, and whose 
patronage and coj^ntenance upheld the poet, and promoted the 
success of his subsequently brilliant career. He was somewhat 
distinguished amongst his professional colleagues (being a 
lawyer,) for the superior intellectual qualifications which he 
possessed, and amongst his friends for the unaffected generosity 
of his character. 

Page 188. I lang lioUe thov.pM, my youth fiC ft'iend.—ThQ 
friend to whom this poem is addressed, was Air. Andrew Aiken, 
the son of Air. Aiken, of Ayr, to whom the Cotters Saturday 
KiffJit is dedicated, and who had been taught by his father to 
venerate the genius and character of his lowly but illustrious 
feilow-countvynian. Mr. Audre«^ Aiken survived fifty years 
after Burns, and died at St. Petersbui-gh, after a very successful 
mercantile career into which he had early embarked at LiverpooL 
Page 190. JExpect na, Sir, in this narration. — The first 
person of respectable rank and good education who took any 
notice of Burns, was Mr. Gavin Hamilton, writer, \v Mauchliiie^ 
from whom he took his farm of Mossgiel on a sub-lease. Mr. 
Hamilton lived in what is called the Castle of Mauchhne, a half 
fortified old mansion near the church, forming the only remains 
of the ancient priory. He was the son of a gentleman who had 
practised the same profession in tlie same place, and was in 
every respect a most estimable member of society — generous, 
aflTable, and humane. Unfortunately, bis religious practice did 
not square with the notions of the then minister of Mauchline, 
the Daddy Auld of Burns, who, in 1785, is found in the session 
records to have summoned him for rebuke on the four Ibllowing 
charges : — Unnecessary absence from church for five consecxr- 
tive Sundays (apparently the result of some dispute about a 
poor's rate) ; 2. Setting out on a journey to Carrick on a Sun- 
day ; 3. Habitual, if not total, neglect of family worship : 4. 
Writing an abusive letter to the Session, in reference to some of 
their fornier proceedings respecting him. Strange though this 
prosecution may seem, it was strictly accordant with the right, 
assumed by the Scottish clergy at that period, to enquire into 
the private habits of parishiouers : and as it is universal] j 



473 NOTES TO THE POE^IS. 

allowed that INIr. Auld's designs in the matter were purely 
religious, it is impossible to speak of it disrespectfully. It was, 
iiowevcr, unfortuiiatel3'^ mixed up with some personal motives 
in the members of the Session, which were so apparent to the 
Presh^^tery, to which I\Ir. Hamilton appealed, that the reverend 
body ordered t!ie proceedings to be stopped, and all notice of 
theni expuriged from the records. A description of the sufFei- 
ings of the Mauchline Session, while orator Aiken was exposing 
them before the Presbytery, is to be found in Ilnlii WiUies 
Prayer. Partly from antipathy to the high orthodox party, 
but more from friendship for Mr. Hamilton, whom he regarded 
as a worthy and enlightened man, persecuted by narrow-witted 
bigots. Burns threw his partizan muse into the quarrel, and 
produced several poems, that just mentioned amongst the rest, 
in which it is but too apparent that religion itself suffers in 
common with those whom he holds up as abusing it. 

Page 196. The Ttva Doffs.— The tale of the Tzoa Dogs was 
composed after the resolution of publishing was nearly taken, 
liobert had a dog, wliich he called Luath, that was a great 
favorite. The dog had been killed by the wanton cruelty of 
somejjerson, the' night before ray father's death. Robert said 
to uie that he should like to confer such an immortality as he 
could bestow on his own friend Luath, and that he had a great 
mhid to introduce something into the book under the title of 
Stanzas to the Memory of a Quadruped Friend ; but this plan 
was given up for the poem as it now stands. C?esar was merely 
the creature of the poet's imagination, created for the purpose 
of holding chat with his favorite Luath." — Gilbert Buens. 
Allan Cunningham mentions, that John Wilson, printer, Kil- 
marnock, on undertaking the first edition of the Poems, sug- 
gested the propriety of placing a piece of a grave nature at the 
beginning, and that Burns, acting on the hint, composed or 
completed the Tiva Dogs in walking home to Mossgiel. Its 
exact date is fixed at February-, 178G, by a letter of the Poet to 
Joim Richmond. 

Page 202. The Lament. — In the early part of 1786, when the 
friends of his Jean forced her to break the nuptial engagement 
into which he had clandestinely entered with her, and took legal 
steps to force him to find security for the maintenance of her 
expected offspring — in this dismal time, when nothing but ruin 
seemed before him — our bard poured forth, as in the name of 
another, the following' eloquent effusion T>f indignation and 
grief. 

Page 204. And own Sis work indeed divine. — 'Allusion is 
herd made to Miss Eliza Burnet, the beauti; of her day in 
Edinburgh, daughter of tiie eccentric scholar and philosopher, 
Lord Monbodd^. Burns was several times entertained by his 
lordship at las house in St. John-street, Canongate, where the 
lady resided. He speaks of her in a letter in the following? 
terms : — " There has not been anything nearly like her in all 
the combinations of beauty, grace, and goodness, the Great 
Creator has formed, since Milton's Eve on the first day of her 
existence." It may be curious to learn •>.vhat was thought oi 



NOTES 10 THE POEilS. 477 

diis lovolj' woman by a man of a very different sort from 
Burns— namely, Hugh Chisliolni, one of the seven broken men 
(usuj'.Uy called robbers) wlio ki'i)t Prince Cliarles in tlieir cave 
lU Inverness-sbire for several weeks during hisbidings,resistiii$j 
the tenij)tation of tliirty tliousiuid pounds to give bini up. This 
man, when far advanced in life, was brought on a visit to 
E'liuburgh, where it was reniarkcid he would never allow any 
one to shake his right hand, tliut member having been rendered 
sacred, in Iiis estimation, by the grasp of the Prince. Being 
taken to sup at I^ord JMonboddo's, old Hugh sat most of the 
time gazing abstractedly on Miss Burnet, and being asked after- 
wards what he thought of her, lie exclaimed, in a burst of his 
eloquent native tongue, which can be but i)Oorly rendered in 
English, " She is the linest animal I ever beheld." Yet an 
enviously minute inquirer, in the letter-press accompanying tiie 
reprint of Kajt/s Portraits, states that she had one blemish, 
though one not apt to be observed — bad teeth. She died in 1790, 
of consumption, at tlie age of twenty-live, and the poet wrote 
an elegy upon her. — Chambers. 

Page 206. And Wallace Tower had sworn the fact was trtce. — 
The ancient Walhice Tower, which fell into a dangerous state 
of repair, was ultimately pulled down, and replaced by a new 
to)*'er, which is still known by the same name.. The Old 
Wallace Tower was an incongruous building, partaking of the 
rude commixture of several styles of architecture, and from it 
rose a slender spire, which, though by no means in exact keeping 
with the basement, certainly contributed to the picturesque 
aspect of the building. The new tower stands upon the same 
foundation in the High-street of Ayr. 

Page 206. Sivift as the gos drive on the ivheeling hare. — The 
falcon, or as it is commonly called, the Gos-hawk. The imagery 
of this passage is as beautiful as the expression. 

Page 307. Or haunted Garpal draws his feeble source. — 
Generall}^ as the rapid enlightenment of the Scottish people 
has dispelled the superstitions which were wont to hang about 
some localities, even to the charm and poetical imagery with 
which such superstitions served at times to invest them, the 
spirits of Garpal Water are yet acknowledged to retain their 
supremacy, and the spot is as firmly believed to be haunted, by 
many of the peasants, as it was oi'old. 

Page 209. Next folloto d Courage with his martial stride. — • 
A complimentary allusion to Captain Hugh Montgomcny, 
otherwise called Sodger Huah by Burns, (who subsequently 
succeeded to the Earldom of i]glinton), and whose family seat 
of Coilsneld is situated on the Eaile, or Feal, a small stream 
which falls into tb.e river Ayr, at no great distance. 

Fiige 209. A female f 07171 camef/'om the ioioers of Stair.— 
In tlie foregoing notes, on the Epistle to Davie, the intro- 
duction of Burns to Mrs. Stewart, of Stair, has been detailed. 
The present p.'ussage is a complimentary allusion to the same lady. 

Page 213. A Tale. — "1 look on Ta77i o Shunter as my 
standard performance in the poetical line." — BuBwa. 



47S NOTES Xv> THE FO.tMS. 

** Wlien my father tewed his httle property near Allovvay Kirk, 
the wall of the clmrch.yard liad gone; to ruia, and cattle had free 
liberty of pasture in it. My fatlicv and two or three neighbours 
joined in an application to the town-council of Ayr, who were 
superiors of the adjoining land, for liberty to rebuild it, and 
raised by subscription a sum for enclosing this ancient cemetery 
with a wall : hence he came to consider it as his burial-place, 
and we learned that reverence for it people generally have for 
the burial-place of their ancestors, ^iy brother was living in 
Eihsland, when Captaiii Grose, on his pcrigrinations through 
Scotland, staid some time at Cavse-honse in the neighbourhood, 
with Captain Robert Riddel, of Glenriddel, a particular friend 
of my brother's. The antiquary and the poet vvere ' mico pack 
and thick thcgither.' Robert requested of Captain Grose, when 
he should come to Ayrshire, that he would make a drawing ot 
Alloway Kirk, as it was the buviai-pluce of his father, where he 
himself had a sort of claim to lay down his bones when they 
should be no longer serviceable to him : and added, by way of 
encouragement, that it was the scene of many a good story of 
witches and apparations, of which he knew the captain w^as 
very fond. The captain agreed to the request, provided the poec 
would furnish a witch story, to be printed along with it. ' Tarn 
o' Shanter' was produced on this occasion, and was tirst pub- 
lished in 'Grose's Antiquities of Scotland.'"— Gilbbet Bukns. 

It was while spending his nineteenth summer in the parish 
of Kirkoswold, in Can-ick, that the poet became acquainted with 
the characters and circumstances afterwards introduced into 
Tarn o' Shanter. The hero was an honest farmer, named 
Douglas Graham, who lived at Shanter, between Turnberry and 
Colzean. His wife, Helen ^I'Taggart, was much addicted to 
superstitious beliefs. Graham, dealing much in malt, went to 
Ayr every market day, whither he was frequentlj' accompanied 
by a shoemaking neighbour, John Davidson, who dealt a httle 
in leather. The two would often linger to a late hour in the 
taverns at the market town. One night, when riding home 
more than usually late by himself, in a storm of wind and rain, 
Graham, in'^p:assing over Brown Canick Hill, near the Bridge 
of Doon, lost his bonnet, which contained the money he had 
drawn that day at the market. To avoid the scolding of his 
wife, he imposed upon her credulity with a story of witches seen 
at Alloway Kirk, but did not the less return to tlieCarrick Hill, 
to seek for his money, which he had the satisfaction to lind, 
with his bonnet, in a plantation nesr the road. Barns, hearing 
Granara's story told between jest and earnest among the smug- 
glers of the Carrick shore, retained it in his memory, till, at a 
comparatively late period of \ub career, he wove from it one of 
the most admired of his poems. Douglas Graham and John 
Davidson, the originals of Tarn o' Shanter and Souter Johnnie, 
have long reposed in the churchyard of Kirkoswold, where the 
former had a handsome monument, bearing a very pious inscrip- 
tion. — Chambers. 

Pt^e 217. Atid win the Icey-stane o' the hriff. — It is well 
Vnown that witches, or any other evil spirits, have no power to 



NOTES TO THE POKilS. 4^7 H 

foiiow A poor wjglit any farther tlian the middle of tlie iif;iro:.t 
runiiiiit; stream. And, at tlie same time, it may not 'ut snjtur. 
fliKiUn to hint to the ])(.'ni.i.'lited traveller, that when he U 
uut'ortnnate enonj;h to fall in with the wierd sisters, or with 
bog-ies, on his road, — whatever ho the danger of going forward, 
it is far less than that of retreat. — IJl-rxs. 

Page 217. Tragic Fragment. — "In my early years nothing 
less would serve me than courting the tragic muse, 1 was, 1 
thiuh, about eighteen or nineteen when I sketched the outlines 
of a tragedy, forsooth : hut the l)ursting of a cloud of family 
misfortuues, which had for sonictiiue threatened us, ])revcnted 
my farther pr^ress. In those days I never wrote down any- 
thing ; so, except a speech or two, the whole has escaped my 
memory. These lines, which I most distinctly remember, were 
the exclamation from a great character — great in occasion.al 
instances of generosity and daring at times in villanies. He is 
supposed to meet with a child of misery, and to burst out into 
this rhapsody," — Burns. 

Page 218. Winter, a Dirge. — " There is scarcely any earthly 
object gives me more— I do not know if I should call it plea- 
sure — but something which exalts me — something which 
enraptures n:ie_ — than to walk on the sheltered side of a wood 
or plantation, in a cloud}- winter's day, and hear the stormy 
wind howhng auiongst the trees, and raving over the plain. It 
is my best season of devotion ; my mind is rapt in a kind of 
enthusiasm to Him, who, in the pompous language of the He- 
brew bard, " Walks on the wings of the wind." In one of these 
seasons, just after a train of misfortunes, I composed Winter,a 
iJrrge. — Burns. According to Gilbert Burns, this is one of 
Burns's earliest pieces, and he has assigned 1781 as its date. 

Page 218. Praijer under the pressure of Violent Anguish. — • 
" There was a period of my hfe that my spirit was well nigh 
Droken by repeated losses and disasters, which threatened, and 
indeed ellbcted, the utter ruin of my fortmie. I\Iy body, too, 
w.as attacked by chat most dreadful distemper, a hypochondria, 
or confirmed melancholy. In this wretched stale, the recollec- 
tion of which makes me shudder, I hung my harp on the willow- 
trees, except in some lucid intervals, in one o^" which I composed 
these lines." — Euen3. 

Piige 22].. The Two, Herds. — " At the time when Bums was 
beginning to exercise his powers as a poet, theological controversy 
raged amongst the clergy and laity of his native country. The 
prominent points related to the doctrines of Original ISin and the 
Trinity: a scarcely subordinate one referred to the right of 
patronage. Burns took the moderate and liberal side, and seems 
to have delighted in doing all he could to torment the zealous 
party, who were designated the Aicld Lights. The first of his 
poetic oDspring that saw the light wi\s a burlesque ^lamentation 
on a quarrel between two reverend Calvinists, which he circulated 
anonymously, and which, " with a certain description of the 
clergy, as well as Liit^', met \\'ith roars of applause. This was 
the Twa Herds. The heroes of the piece were the Kev. Alex- 
ander Moodie, minister of Kiccarton, and the Piev. John R\issell^ 



480 NOTES TO THE POE3I5!!. 

minister of a chapel of ease, at Kilmarnoi,k, both of thenj 
eminent as leaders of the Auld Light party. In riding home 
together the}'^ got into a warm dispute regarding some point of 
doctrine, or of discipline, which led to a rupture that appeared 
nearly incural^le. They annear to have afterwards quarrelled 
about a question of parish boundaries ; and when the point was 
debated in the Presbytery of Irvine, in presence of a great mul- 
titude of the people (including Burns), they lost temper entirely 
and " abused eacli other," says Mr. Lockhart, " with a fiery 
vehemence of personal invective such as has been long banished 
from all popular assemblies, wherein the laws or courtesj'- are 
enforced by those of a certain unwritten code." jUlan Cunning- 
ham gives a popular story of this quarrel having ultimately 
come to blows; but if such had been the case, the poet would 
certainly have adverted to it : — Chambers. 

Page 226. Tour dreams and tricks. — "A certain humorous 
dream of his was then making some noise in the country side." 
— Burns, llr. Cunningham gives the following accoimt of 
the dream — " Lord K., it is said, was in the practice of calling 
all his familiar acquaintances brutes. ' Well, ye brute, how are 
ye to day ? ' was his usual mode of salutation. Once, in com- 
pany, his lordship, having indulged in this rudeness more than his 
wont, turned to Kankiue and exclaimed, ' Brute, are ye dumb ? 
have ye no queer sly story to tell us ? ' 'I have nae story,' 
said llankine; 'but last night I had an odd dream.' ' Out with 
it, by all means,' said the other. ' Aweel, ye see,' said Raukine, 
'I dreamed I was dead, and that for keeping other than gudo 
company on earth, I was sent down stairs. When I knocked at 
the low door, wha should open it but the deil ; he was in a rough 
humour, and said, ' Wha may ye be, and what's your name ? ' 
' My name,' quoth I, ' is John Rankine, and my dwelling-place 
was' Adam-hill.' 'Gaewa' \\4' ye,' quoth Satan, 'yecannabe 
here ; ye're ane o' Lord K.'s brutes — hell's fou o' them already.'" 
This sharp rebuke, it is said, polished for the future his lordship's 
speech. 

Page 227. AndJtUed them fou. — Some occurrence is evidently 
here alluded to. We have heard the following account of it, 
but cannot vouch for its correctness : — A noted zealot of the 
opposite party (the name of Holy Willie has been mentioned, 
but more probably, from the context, the individual must have 
been a clergyman), caUing on Mr. Rankine on business, the latter 
invited him to take a glass. With much entreaty the visitor 
was prevailed on to make a very small modicum of toddy. The 
stranger remai-king that the liquor proved veiy strong, Mr. 
Rankine pointed out, as any other landlord would have done, 
that a little more hot water might improve it. The kettle v/as 
accordingly resorted to, but still the liquor appeared over-poter.t. 
Again he filled up. Still no diminution of strength. All this 
time he was sipping and sipping. By and bye the liquor begun 
k» appear only too weak. To cut short a -tale, the reluctant 
guest ended by tumbling dead drunk on the floor. The trick 
pla)'edupou him requires, of course, noexplanation — Cjiambees. 

rage 231. The American War. — All the allusions contained 



NOTES TO THE POEMS. 481 

rii this ])oeTn aro oC such a nature and refer to such pul)lic cveufs 
Kit will be readily understood: and there is sometiiint^ cxceed- 
•n-^ly humorous in tlie exposition of the views and nmiarks of 
the peasantry respeetinfr the irroat leaders, or great events, which 
happen to l)econie matters of notoriety. 

l*age 235. To a Louse. — An incident which actually' occurred, 
and which was witnessed by Burns, at Mauchline, in December, 
1785. 

Page 235. But Miss's fine Ijunardi ! Jie ! — The fashions in 
those daj's, as in these, were apt to receive denominations from 
])ersons^r events which had created general sensation. In our 
lime we liave our Kossuth, or Klapka hats and the Uke. Lunardi 
had made several balloon ascents during the summer of 1785, in 
Scotland, and as these excited much interest at the time, Lu- 
uardi's name was suivantles recjles, appended to various articles 
of dress, and to bonnets amongst otliers. 

Pag' 230. Willie Chalmers. — A writer in Ayr, and a parti- 
cular liiend of the poet, Mr. Clialmei's, asked Burns to write a 
poetic epistle in his behalf to a young lady whom he admired. 
Burns, who had seen the lady, biit was scarcely acquainted with 
her, complied by penning the above. 

Page 2¥). Lines written on a JBanJc-I^ote. — " These verses, 
in the handwriting of Burns, are copied from a bank-note, in the 
possession of IVIr. F. Gracie. of Dumfiies. The note is of the 
Bank of Scotland, and is dated so far back as Ist March, 1780. 
The lines exhibit the strong marks of the poet's vigorous pen, 
and are evideutlj' an extempore effusion of liis characteristic 
feelings. They bear internal proof of having been written at 
that interesting period of his life, when he was on the point of 
leaving the country on account of tlie unfavourtible manner iu 
which his proposals for marrying his ' bonny Jean ' (his future 
wife), were at 'first received by her parents." — >\Iotiieiiwell. 

Page 240. To a Kiss. — There is some doubt as to the authen- 
ticity of these pretty lines. It has been averred upon very good 
authority that the manuscript, in the handwriting of Bobert 

Bjirns, is yet extant, and in the possession of Mr. A . 

At any rate, as the verses are not unworthy of the bardof Ajt, 
they may be accepted. They w^ere first published at Liverpool, 
in a periodical called the Kaleidoscope. 

Pago 241. Verses written zinder Violent Grief. — These verses 
appear to have been '.vritten in the distressing summer of 1786, 
when the poet's prospects v/ere at the dreariest, and the very 
wife of his fondest aftcctions had forsaken him. From the time, 
and other circumstances, we may conjecture that the present 
alluded to was a copy of the Kilmarnock edition of the poems, 
then newly published. The verses appeared in the Sun news- 
paper, April, 1823.— Chambees. 

Pag3 241. Verses left in the room where he slept. — " The first 
time Robert heard the spinnet played upon was at the house 
of Dr. Laurie, miiiister of Loudon, (about Octol)er, 1786). Dr. L. 
hadseveral daughters — oneof them played ; the father and mother 
led down tlie dance; the rest of the sisters, the brother, the poet, 
and the other guests, mixed in it. It was a dehghtful family 
31 2e 



iS2 NOTES TO THE POEMS. 

acene for our poet, then latel}'- introduced to the •world. Hia 
mind was roused to a poetic enthusiasm, and the stanzas were 
left in the room where he slept." — Gilbert Burns. Dr. 
Laurie was the medium through which Dr. Blacklock trans- 
mitted the letter, by which Burns was arrested on his flight to 
the West Indies, and induced to go to Edinburgh. This letter 
ha^ S'uce been in the possession of the Kev. Mr. Balfour Gi'ahani, 
minister of North Berwick, who is connected with the family bj-- 
marriage. Dr. Lauiie, and his son, who was his successor in 
the pastoral charge of the parish, are both deceased. 

Page 244. Mpistle to Major Logan. — Major Logan, a retired 
military' officer, still remembered in Ayrshire for his wit and 
humour — of which two specimens may be given. Asked by an 
Ayr hostess if he would have the water to the glass of spirits 
she was bringing to him on his order, he said, with a grin, " No, 
I would rather you took tlie water out o't." Visited on his 
deathbed by Mr. Cutliill, one of the ministers of Ayr, who 
remarked that it would i-x\iQ fortitude to support such sntTerings 
as he was visited with ; " Aye," said the poor wit, " it would 
take Jifiitude." At the time when the above letter was addressed 
to him, Major Logan lived at Parkliouse, in Ayrshire, with his 
mother and sister, the Miss Logan to whom Burns presented 
a copy of lieattie's Poems, with verses. The major was a' 
capital violinist. 

Page 24G. On a Scotcli Bard, gone to the West Indiea.— 
With the characteristic humour with which he wrote the elegy 
and epitaph of Thomas Samson and his own elegy. Burns wrote 
this address to himself, when he anticipated his departure foi 
the West Indies, and before the brilliant career of his reception 
at Edinburgh had fixed his views as to life. 

Page 249. To a Haggis. — The haggis is a dish peculiar to 
Scotland, though supposed to be of French extraction. It is 
composed of minced oftal of mutton, mixed with oatmeal and 
suet, and boiled in a sheep's stomach. When made in JEl spa's 
way, with "a curn o' spice" (see the Gentle Shepherd), it is an 
agreeable, albeit a somewhat heavy dish, always providing that 
no horror be felt at the idea of its preparation. 

Page 270. Extempore to Captain Biddel, on returning a 
Newspaper. — Captain Riddel had, in the course of poring over 
a newspaper, fallen upon some critical remarks respecting some 
production of Burns, and had accordingly despatched the piper 
to the poet, that he might have an opportunity of observing 
what was said of him. And it was in returning this paper that 
Burns accompanied it with the comical note in verse, entitled 
an " Extempore to Captain lliddel." 

Page 273. Ode, Sacred to the Memory of Mrs. Oswald. — 
'' In January last, 1789, on my road to Ayrshire, I had to put 
up at BaiHe Wigham's, in Sanquhai-, the only tolerable inn in 
the place. The frost was keen, and the grim evening and howl- 
ing wind were ushering in a night of snow and drift. My horse 
and I were both much fatigued with the labom-s of the day, 
and just as my friend the Bailie and I were bidding defiance to 
tiie storm over a smoking bowl, in wheels the funeral pageantry 



NOT US 10 TITR POEMS. 483 

of the late Mrs. Oswald ; and ])nf)v I am forced to brave all the 
ten-ors of the teuii)estuous uig-lit, and, jade my horse— iny young 
favourite horse, whom 1 had just cliristoiuul Pej^asuS — farther 
on through tlie wildest hills and moors or Ayrshire to the next 
inn ! 'I'lie powers of poetry and prose said; under me when I 
would describe what I felt. Suffice it to say, that when a good 
lire at New Cummock had so far recovere<l my Irozen sinews, I 
sat down and wrote the enclosed ode." — Roiikrt Burns, 

P;ige 276. On seeing a Wounded TTare limp hrj me, tvhich a 
fellow had just shot. — Mr. Cunningham mentions that the poor 
animal, whose suflerings excited this burst of indignation on the 
part of the poet', was shot by a lad named James Thompson, 
son of a farmer near Ellisland. Burns who was walking beside 
the Nith at the moment, execrated the young man, and spoke 
of throwing him into the water. 

Page 277. Muirland Jock. — Mr. John Shepherd, of Muir- 
kirk. The statistical account of Muirkirk, contributed by this 
gentleman to Sir John Sinclair's work, is above the average in 
intelligence, and ver^'- agreeably written. He had, however, an 
unfortunate habit of suying rude things, which he mistook for 
wit, and thus laid himself open to Burns's satire. 

Page 280. Delia, — This small piece, wdiich was an imitation, 
was forwarded to the Star Newspaper for publication in the 
month of May, 1789 ; and it was in recompense for this con- 
tribution, that Burns was put on the free list, and supplied with 
the paper gratuitously, which, however, be received very 
irregularly. In allusion to the very uncertain manner in which 
the paper was delivered to him, he addressed the ">uliioined lines, 
on one occasion, to the publisher :— 

Dear Peter, dear Peter, 

We poor sons of metre 
Are often negleckit, ye ken ; 

For instance, 3'our sheet, man, 

Tho' glad I'm to see't, man, 
I get it no ane day in ten. 

Page 280. Sketch — New Year's Day — Mrs, Dunlop, 
daughter and heiress of Sir Thomas Wallace, of Craigie, and 
at this time the widow of John Dunlop, of Dunlop, in Ayrshire, 
and resident at the last-mentioned place, became acquainted 
with Burns on the publication of his poems at Kilmarnock, and 
was ever after his steady friend. She was a woman of excellent 
understanding and heart, with a considerable taste for elegant 
literature. She died in 1815, at the age of eightj^-four. 

Page 290, Oh for a throat like huge Mons-meg. — A piece <rf 
ordnance, of extraordinary structure and magnitude, founded in 
the reign of James IV, of Scotland, about the end of the 
fifteenth centmy, and which is still exhibited, though in an 
infirm state, in Edinburgh castlo. The diameter of the mouth 
ts twenty inches. 

Page 291. The muffled mtirtherer of Charles, — The execu- 
tioner of Charles I of KngUnd, who, as was the custom, waa 

sked. 



i84 KOTES TO THE POEMS. 

Page 301 Monody on a Ziady famed for her Caprice, — Th;s 
Maria of this iauipoon, and that which follows, was Mrs. Riddel^ 
of Woodlee park, a lady of poetical talent and taste, with whom 
the poet was generally on the best terms, but who had tempo- 
rarily repudiated him from her society, in consequence of an 
act of rudeness committed by him when elevated with liquor. 
She is the lady alluded to by Dr. Currie, of whom Burns, 
amongst his last days at Brow, asked if she had any commands 
for the other world, and who wrote the beautiful paper on his 
death, which first appeared in the Dumfries Journal, and was 
afterwards transferred entire to Currie's Memoir. 

Page 317. To Chi oris. — The heroine of several of his songs. 
Her name was Jean Lorimer, her father being a farmer at 
Kemeyss-Hall, near Dumfries. Burns seems to have formed 
an acquaintance with her during his stay at J^^llisland, as there 
is still a pane in the eastern room ol' that house, bearing her 
name, and that of her lover, John Gillespie, inscribed by her 
own hand, during a visit she paid there. She afterwards formed 
an unfortunate alliance with a INIr. Whelpdale, from whom she 
soon separated. At the time when the following stanzas were 
'addressed to her, she was living in retirement at Dumfries, 
under depi'ession of spirits, the consequence of her recent 
domestic unhappiness. Further infovniation respecting this 
elegant but unfortimate woman is given elsewhere, 

JPage 321, Wha will buy my trogyin. — • Troggin is a tenn 
applied in Scotland to the various wares can-ied about by 
hawkers, who, in the same provincialism, are called troggers. 

Page 322. The crest, an auld Crab-apple. — Burns here 
alludes to a brother wit, the Rev. Mr. Muirhead, minister of 
Urr, in Galloway. The hit applied very well, for Muirhead 
was a wind-dried, unhealthy looking little man, very proud 
of his genealogy, and ambitious of being acknowledged, on all 
occasions, as the chief of the Muirheads ! He was not disposed, 
however, to sit down with the affront: on the contrary, he 
replied to it in a virulent diatribe, which may be presented as 
remarkable specimen of clerical and poetical irritability ; and 
curious, moreover, as perhaps the only contemporary satire 
upon Burns of which the world has ever heard, except the 
immortal "trimming letter" from a tailor. Dr. Muirhead'a 
jeu d' esprit is in the shape of a translation from Martial's ode^ 
Ad Vacerram. 

" Vacerras, shabby son of whore, 

Why do thy patrons keep thee poor ? 

Thou art a sycophant and traitor, 

A liar, and calumnator, 

Who conscience (hadst thou that) wouldst soil. 

Nay, lave the common sewers of hell 

For whi«.ky. Like most precious imp, 

Thou ay* a ganger, rhjnnster, pimp. — v 

How '^oi aes it, then, Vacerras, that 

'I'nou sti -i art poor as a church rat ? — 

Chambers. 
"«.$!!> 32". /' 'rses on the Destruction of the Woods mar 
ifi-'U'/nia^j^ — The Duke of Queeusberry stripped his domains 



ffOTDS TO TIIK P0KM8. 4H3 

of Ijrmiiuinn^, in Dumfries-sliire, and Neidpatli, in P«bU<j8« 
Bliiro, of all tlio wood lit for being cut, in onlcr to envM:h ll)» 
Countess of Yarmouth, whom he supposed to ho his d iuy;ht('r. 

Page 328. On the Duke of Queensberry. — JJurns was one 
day hen.g rallied by a friend for vvtisting his satirical shafts on 
persons, unworthy of his notice, and was reniindcd that there 
were such persons (distinguished by rank and circumstance) a» 
the Duke of Queensberry, on whom his biting rhajisodics might 
more advantageously be expended. He immediately impro- 
vised these lines. 

Page 328. Impromptu on Willie Stewart. — " Sir Walter 
Scott possessed a tumbler, on wdiich these lines written by 
Burns, on the arrival of a friend, JNIr. W . Stewart, factor to a 
gentleman of Nithsdale. The landlady being very wrath at 
what she considered the disfigurement other glass, a gentleman 
present appeased her by paying down a shilling, and cariied off 
the relic." — Lockhart. 

Page 329. Tibbie, I hcCc seen the Day. — According to Burn.q 
himself this song was written when he was about seventeen 
years old, in honour of a damsel named Isabella Steven, who 
lived in the neighbourhood of Lochlee. 

Page 330. Idontgomcry s Peggy . — The old ballad, 3Ic Millan's 
Tcggy, was the model of this song. The heroine of the piece 
was a young lady educated in a manner somewhat superior to 
the peasau*^ry in general, and on whom Burns practised to dis- 
play his tact in captivating, until, by degrees, he ielliu love in 
earnest, and then discovered that the object of tliis first sport, 
tlien earnest, was previously engaged. '" It cost me," says he, 
Bome heartaches to get rid of the aflair." 

Page 334. The Bigs a' Barley. — Anne Blair, and Anne 
Ronald, daughters of farmers in Tarbolton parish, and the 
latter of whom became Mrs. Paterson, of Aikenbrae, have each 
been spoken of in their native district as the heroine of this song. 
The poet's familj' was intimate with Mr. Ronald, when residing 
at Lochlee, and even after the}-^ had removed to Mossgiel. Mr. 
Gilbert Burns was at one time considered as a wooer of one of the 
INIisses Ronald, We learn from Mr. Cunningham that Mr. 
Ronald liked the conversation of the poet very much, and would 
sometimes sit late with him ; on which one of the girls — probably 
not Anne — remarked that " she could na see aught about Robert 
Burns that would tempt her to sit up wi' him till twal o'clock at 
night." 

Page 335. Song Composed in August. — This song was com- 
posed in honour of Margaret Thompson, who lived in a cottage 
adjoin. ng the Village School of Ivirkoswald, where Burns was 
completing his education, when nineteen years old. Burufi 
himself gives the following account of the matter : — This Miss 
Thompson afterwards married a ^Ir. Nielson, and settled with 
him in the town of Ayr. "A charming tillette," says Burns 
in speaking of her, " who lived nc.vt door to the school, overset 
iny trigonometry, and sent me off at a tangent from the sphere 
of my studies. I, however, struggled on with my sines and 
cosines for a few days more ; but stepping into the garden ouo 

2e3 



486 NOTES TO THE POEMS. 

;barming noon to take the sun's altitude, there I met my angel, 



Like Proserpine gathering flowers, 



Herself a fairer flower. 

It was in vain to think of doing any more good at school. The 
remaining week I staid I did nothing but craze the faculties of 
my soul about her, or steal out to meet her." 

Page 336. Yon Wild Mossy Mountains. — " This tunc is by 
Oswald ; and the words relate to some part of my private his- 
tor,y, which it is of no consequence to the world to kno\f "— 

BUENS. 

Page 340. The 'HigMand Lassie. — The " Highland Lassie," 
celebrated in this song, was the Mary Campbell, to whom Burns 
was at one time engaged, and devotedly attaclied, and whose 
premature death, in fact, prevented her becoming Mrs. BjiJ-ns. 

Page 344. The Bi-aes o Ballochmyle. — " Compose^n the 
amialjle and excellent family of Whitefoord's leaving Balloch- 
myle, when Sir John's misfortunes obliged him to sell the 
estate." — Buhns. Maria was Miss Whitefoord, afterwards 
Mrs." Cranstone. The purchaser of the property was Claud 
Alexander, Esq., whose sister Burns has celebrated as the 
Bonnie Lass of Ballochmyle. 

Page 344. The Lass o' Ballochmyle. — The origin of this 
beautiful song was the accidental meeting of Miss Wilhelmina 
Alexander, iw the grounds attached to the mansion of Balloch- 
myle, the property of her brother, Mr. Claude Alexander. The 
»song was written in 1786, and immediately forwarded by Burns 
to Miss Alexander, whose delicacy kept it unknown for the time. 

Page 345. The Gloomy Night is Gathering Fast. — I com- 
posed this song as I conveyed my chest so far on the road to 
Greenock, where I was to embark in a few days for Jamaica, 
November, 1786). I meant it as a farewell dirge to my native 
• land." — BuEKS. 

Professor Walker gives the following account relating to this 
song. " I requested him (Burns) to communicate some of his 
unpublished poems, and he recited his farewell song to the 
Banks of Ayr, introducing it with a description of the circum- 
stances under which it was composed, more striking than the 
poem itself He had left Dr. Laurie's family, alter a visit 
which he expected to be the last, and on his way home, had to 
cross a wide stretch of solitary moor. His mind was stiungly 
affected by parting for ever with a scene where he had tasted so 
much elegant and social pleasure; and depressed by the con- 
trasted gloom of his prospects, the aspect of nature harmonised 
with his feelings ; it was a lowering and heavy evening in the 
end of Autumn. The wind was up, and whistled through the 
ruilies and long spear grass which bent before it. The clouds 
were driving before the sky ; and cold pelting showers at 
intervals added discomfort of body to cbcerlessness of miad. 
Under these circumstances, and in this fi-ame, Burns coai- 
posed this poem. 

Page 346. The Banks o' Doow. — This song relates to aa 
mcident in real life. The unfortunate heroine was a beautifBi 
woman, daughter to a landed gentleman of Carvick and uiece 



NOTKS TO TJIE FORMS. 487 

to the baronet. Her lover was a landed gciil lenian of VVigtoiishira, 
A inothor without the sanction of niatriinony, and dcsortal by 
her lover, slic died of a broken heart. On the sub.«C(inent death 
of her brotlier, her 3'onn.u-er sister inhcritixl tlio family property 
but not witliout opposition from an unexpected quarter. The 
seducer and deserter of the deceased lady now appeared in a 
court of law, to endeavour to establish the fact of a secret 
marriage with her, so as to entitle him to sucec^ed to hec 
brother's' estate, as the father and heir of her deceased child!, 
whose claim, of course, would have been preferable to that of 
the younger sister, if his legitimacy could have been proved. 
In this attempt, the seducer, it is gratifying to add, was not 
successful. 

Page 347. irPhcrson's Farewell. — James IMacpherson was 
a noted Highland freebooter, of uncommon personal strength, 
and an excellent performer on the violin. After holding the 
counties of Aberdeen, Banff, and Moray, in fear for some years, 
he was seized by DutF, of Braco, ancestor of the Earl of Fife, 
and tried before the sheriff of Banffshire, (November 7, 1700), 
along with certain gipsies who had been taken in his company. 
lu the prison, while he lay under sentence of death, he composed 
a song, and an appropriate air, the former commencing thus : — 

"I've spent my time in rioting, 

Debauch(?d my K'alth and strength ; 
I squandered fast as pillage came, . 
A»kI fbll to shame at length. 

But dantonly and wantonly. 

And rantonly I'll gae ; 
I'll play a tune, and dance it roun', 
Beneath the gallows tree." 

When brought to the place of execution, on the gallows-hill of 
Banfi", (Nov. 16), he played the tune on his violin, and then 
asked if any friend present would accept the instrument as a 
gift at his hands. No one coming forward, he indignantly 
broke the violin on his knee, and threw away the fragments ; 
after wdiich he submitted to his fate. The traditionary accounts 
of Macpherson's immense prowess are justified by his sword, 
which is still preserved in Duff House, at Banffj and is an im- 
plement of great length and weight— as well as by his bones. 
which, were found a few years ago, and were allowed by all Avho 
saw them to be much stronger tlian the bones of ordinary men. 

The verses of Bums — justly called by jNIr. Lockhart "a grand 
lyric," — were designed as an improvement on those of the free- 
hooter, preserving the same air. In the edition of the poet's 
works, superintended by Messrs. Hogg and Motherwell, (Glas- 
gow, 1834), the reader will find ample information on the 
subject of Macpberson and his " Rant." 

Page 349. The Banls of the Devon. — These verses were 
composed on a charming girl, a Miss Charlotte Hamilton, 
who was since married to M'Kitnck Adair, Esq., physician. 
She is sister of my wurtliy irienii, GtViu Hamilton, of Maudi- 
Uae, and was born on the banks of A} r, but was, at the time J 



488 HOIES TO THE POEMS. 

wrote these lines, residing at Ilarvieston, in Clackmannanshire, 
on the banks of the little river Devon." — Burns. • It was in 
the course of a sliort tour, in company with Dr. Adair, August, 
1787, that the poet saw Miss Hamilton, at Harvieston. Intro- 
ducing his fellow-traveller to the family, he was the means of 
bringing about an union, from which, says Mr. Adair, in 1830, 
"I have derived, and expect to derive furtlier happiness." 

Page 35o. IFhen Januar^ Wind. — In imitation of^ong of 
which that consummate libertine, Charles II., was the uero. 

Page 358. Ane Fond Kiss. — These lines, which were found 
amongst the papers of Mrs. McLehose, were evidently addressed 
to her, and allude to the parting scene between the poet and 
his Clarinda. " These exquisitely affecting stanzas contain the 
essence of a thousand love tales." — Sib Walter Scott. 

Page 360. Of a the Airts the Wind can Blaio. — The tune 
of this song was composed by Marshall, who for manj' years 
served in the capacity of butler to the Dulce of Gordon, and to 
whose genius we are indebted for some of the most exquisite of 
Scottish airs. Of the words Burns gives the following brief 
account. " This song I composed out of compliment to Mrs. 
Burns.— ^N.B. It was the honeymoon." 

Page 362. To Ilary in Heaven. — " This celebrated poem 
was composed hy Burns, in September, 1789, on the anniversary 
of the day on which he heard of the death of his early love, 
Mary Campbell. According to Mrs. Burns, he spent that day, 
though labouring under cold, in the usual work of the harvest, 
andapparently in excellent spirits. But, as the twiUght deepened, 
he appeared to grow ' very sad about something,' and at length 
wandered out into the barn-yard, to which his wife, in her 
anxietj', followed him, entreating him in vain to observe thai 
frost had set in, and to return to tlie fireside. On being again 
and again requested to do so, he promised compliance — bui 
still remained where he was, striding up and down slowly, and 
contemplating the sky, which was singularly clear and starry. 
At last Mrs. Burns found him stretched on a mass of straw 
contemplating a beautiful planet, 'that shone like anothcl 
moon,' and prevailed on him to come in. He immediately, ou 
entering thehouse,"called for his desk, and wi'ote, exactly as thej 
now stand, with all the ease of one copying from memory, IheM 
suhlime and pathetic verses." 



6tesam 



M)ei5h. At a shy distfince 

Aoread. Abroad, in sight 

Abreed. In breadth 

Ae, One 

Aft. Oft 

Aften. often 

Aglej'. Off the right line, 

wrong 
Aibhns. Perhaps 
Airn. Own 
Aiver. An old horse 
Aizle. A hot cinder 
Alake. Alas 
Arent. Over against 
Ase. Ashes 

Asteer. Abroad, stirring 
Auldfarran, or Auldfarrant. 

Sagacious, cunning, prudent 
Ava. At all 

Awn. The beard of barley, &c. 
Awnie. Bearded 
Ayont. Beyond 

B. 

Ba'. Ball 

Backets. Ash board. 

Backlins. Comin', coining back 

Baide. Endured, did stay 

Baggie. The bell 

Bair»e. Having large bones 

Ban. To swear 

Bane. Bone 

Bannock. A kind of thick cake 

Batts. Botts 

Baudrons. A cat 

Baws'nt. Stripe down the face 

Bear. Barley 

Beet. To juld fuel to fire 

Belyve. By and bye 

Ben. In, inner room 

Beuk. A book 

Bicker. A kind of wooden dish 

Bie, or Bield. Shelter 

Bien. Wealthy, plentiful 

Big. To build 



Biggin. Building a houjw 

Biggit. Built 

Bill. Ahull 

Billie. A brother, a yo.ith 

Bing. A heap of grain 

Birk. Birch 

Birkie. A clever fellow 

Birring. The noise of par* 
tridges, &c. when they spring 

Bit. Crisis, nick of time 

Bizz. A bustle, to buzz 

Blastie. A term of contempt 

Blastit. Blasted 

Blate. Bashful, sheepish 

Blather. Bladder 

Bland. A flat piece of any- 
thing, to slap 

Blellum. Idle, talking fellow 

Blether. To talk idly, nonsense 
Blink. A little while, a smiling 

look, to look kindly 
Blinker. A term of contempt 
Blue gown. One of those beg- 
gars who get annually, on 
the king's birth-day, a blue 
cloak or gown, with a badge 
Blype. A shred, a large piece 
Bock. To vomit 
Booked. Gushed, vomitted 
Bodle. A small old coin 
Boord. A board 
Boortree. The shrub elder 
Bood, or buid. Behoved 
Botch. An angry tumour 
Bow-kail. Cabbage 
Bowt. Bended, crooked 
Brae. A declivity, a precipice 
Brainage. To run rashly 
Brang't. Reeled forward 
Brash. A sudden illness 
Brats. Coarse clothes, rags, &c. 
Bi-attle, A short race, hurrj 
Braxie. A diseased sheep 
Breckens. Fern 
Breef. An invulerable, *r irre- 
sistible spell 



490 



GXOSSAET. 



Bria Juice, liquid 

Brig. A bridge 
Brock. A badger 
Bruilzie. A broil, a corabustion 
Brunt. Did burn, burnt 
Brust. To burst, burst 
Buclian-buUers. The boiling 
of the sea among the rocks 
Buirdly. Stout made 
Bum-clock. A humming bee- 
tle that flics in the summer 
Brummie. To blunder 
Brummler. A blunderer 
Bunker. A window-seat 
Bure. Did bear 
But. Without 
But an' ben. Outer and inner 

apartment 
Byke. A bee-hive 
Byre. A cow stable, a shippen 



Caff. Chaff 

Caird. Atinker 

Cairn. A loose heap of stones 

Cannilie. Dextrously, gently 

Cantie, or canty, Cheerful, 
merry 

Cantrip. A charm, a spell 

Careerin. Cheerfully 

Carl. An old man 

Carlin. A stont old woman 

Castock. Stalk of a cabbage 

Caudron. A cauldron 

Cauk and keel. Chalk and I'ed 
clay 

Chanp. A stroke, a blow 

Cheekit. Checked 

Cheep. A chirp, to chirp 

Chiel, or cheel. A young fellow 

Chimla, or chimhe. A fire- 
grate, fire-place 

Chimla-lug. The fire-side 

Chuffle. Fat-faced 

Clachan. A small village 
about a church, a hamlet 

Clarkit. Wrote 

Clash. An idle tale, the story 
of the day 

Claught. Snatched at 

Claut. To clean, to scrape 

Clauted. Scraped 

Cleed. To clothe 

Cleekit. Having caught 



Clinkambell. Who rings tha 
church bell 

Clips. Shears 

Ciishmaclavcr. Idle talk 

Cloot. The hoof of a cow, &c. 

Clootie. Oid name for the devil 

Clour. Swelling after a blow 

Coila. From Kyle, a district of 
Ayrshire 

Collie. A general and some- 
times a particular name for 
country' curs 

Coof. A blockhead, a ninny 

Cookit. Appeared and dis- 
appeared by fits 

Coost. Did cast 

Coot or Kuit, The ankle 

Cootie. A wooden dish, fowls 
with feathered legs 

Corbies. A species of the crow 

Corn't. Fed with oats 

Couthie. Kind, loving 

Cowe. To terrify, to keep under 

Cowp. To barter, to tumble 

- over, a gang 
Covvpit. Tumbled 
Cowte. A colt 
Crack. Conversation " 
Frachin'. Conversation 
Craft or croft. A field 
Crambo-clink, or crambo-jingle. 

Rhymes, doggerel verses 
Cranreuch. The hoar frost 
Crap. A crop, to crop 
Creel. A basket 
Crood, or croud. Tc coo 
Croon. A hollow moan 
Crouchie. Crook-backed 
Crowdie. A composition of 

oatmeal and boiled water 
Crummock. A cow with crook- 
ed horns 
Crump. Hard and brittle 
Crunt. A blow on the head 
Cuif. Blockhead, ninny 
Cummock. A short staff 
Curmurring. Murmuring 
Cm-pin. The crupper 

D. 

Baffin. Merriment 
Daimen. Eare, now and then 
Daud. To thrash, to abuse 
iJaur. To dare 



GLOSflAET. 



4yl 



I)a\v«l. A large piece 

I);iurg, or daurk. A day's 

labour 
Dantit, or Dantet. Fondled 
Doavo. To deafen 
Ooleent. Dolirious 
Dight. Cleaned from cliaf! 
Dinna. Do not 
Ding, To worst, to push 
Dirl. A slig-ht tremulous pain 
Disjaskit. Jaded, worn out 
Doited. Stupefied hebetated 
Donsie. Unlucky 
Dool. Sorrow ; to sing dool 
Dorty. Saucy, nice 
Dought. \Yu.s, or were able 
Doure. Stout, durable, sullen 
Dow. Am, or are al>le, can 
Dowff. Pithless, wanting force 
Dowie. Worn with grief 
Dowua. Am, or are not able 
Dreigh. Tedious, long about it 
Droddum. The breech 
Drumly, iluddj'- 
Drummock, ]\leal and water 
Drunt, Pet, sour humour 
Dush. To push as a ram 
Dusht. Pushed by a ram, &c. 

E. 

Ee. nie eye 
Een. The eyes 
Eerie, Frighted 
Eild, Old age 
Elbuck, The elbow 
Eldritch, Ghastly, frightful 
Ettle. To try, attempt 
Eydent. Diligent 

F. 

Faddom't. Fathomed 
Faiket. Unknown 
Faii'iu, A fairing, a present 
Farl. A cake of bread 
Fash. Trouble, care 
Fasten-c'eu, I asten even, 
Fawsont. Decent, seemly 
F-ejil, A field, smooth 
Feck, IMany, plenty 
Feckfu', Large, brawny, stout 
Feg. Fig 

Feid, ?eud, enmity 
Fend, To live comfortaltly 
Ferlie, or Ferley. To wonder 



Fient. Fiend, a pretty oath 
Fier, Sound, healthy 
Fisle, To lid'rtt, to bustle 
Fleesh. A lleoce 
Fleg. A random blow 
Fletherin. Flattering 
Flether. To decoy 
Fiey. To scare, to frighten 
Flinders, Shreds 
Flisk, To fret at the yoke 
Fhskit. Fretted 
Forbears. Forefathers 
For bye. Besides 
Forfairn. Distressed, jaded 
Forjaskit. Fatigued, jaded 
P'ou', Full, drunk 
Foughtcn, Troubled 
Fouth, Plenty, enough 
Fovv, A bushel, &c. 
Fufl". To blow intermittently 
Fur, A furrow 
F3ke. Trifling cares 
Fvle. To soil, to dirty 
Fyl't, Soiled, dirtied 

Gae, To go,- gaed, went 

Garten, A garter 

Gar, To make, to force to 

Gash, Wise, sagacious 

G mcy. Jolly, large 

Gear, Riches, goods 

Geek. Toss the head iu sconi 

Ged. A pike 

Geordie. A guinea 

Gillie. Diminutive of gill 

Gin, If, against 

Glaikit. Inattentive, foolish 

Glaive, A sword 

Gleg, Sharp, ready 

Gle3'. A squint, to squint 

Gloaming. The twihght 

Graith, Accoutrements 

Greusome, Loathesomely 

H. 
IlafTet, The side of the head 
Ilafllins. Nearly half 
Hag. A scaur giilf in icossea 

and moors 
Hallan. A partition \\3M 
Haggis. A kind of lumco^ 
pudding, boiled in tli.i »W>- 
mach of a cow or sheer 
Ham, Very coarse linen 



4.92 GLOSSAUV. 


Hatighs. Low-lying lands j 


Kain. Fowls, &o., paid as rent 


Hanrl. To drag, to peel | 


Kebbuck. A cheese 


Haverel. A lialf-witted person 


Keek. A peep, to peep 


Havins. Good inanuers 


Kennin. A small matter 


Hawkie. Cow with white face 


Ket. Matted, haiiy 


Hoch! Oh! strange 


Kiurgh. Carking, anxiety 


Hccht. Foretold 


Kilt. To truss up the clotheB 


Heugh. Craa-, a coal-pit 


Kimmei*. A young girl 


Hiloh. A hobble, to lialt 


Kin'. Kind 


llir])le. To walk lamely 


Kirn. The harvest supper 


Histie. Dry, chapt, barren 


Knaggle. Like knags 


Hool. Outer-skin, or case 


Kn we. A small round hillock 


Ploohe. Slowly, leisurely 


Kuittle. To cuddle 


Jlost, or hoast. To cough 


Kuittlin'. To cuddle 


Hotch'd. Turned topsy-turvy 


Kye. Cows 


Houghmagandie. Something 


L. 


improper 
Hov'd. Heav'd, swelled 


Laigh. Low 


Howdie. Midwife 


L'allans. Lowland dialec 


Howe. A hollow or dell 


Lampit. Shell-fish 


Howebackit. Sunk in the back 


Lan'. Land, estate 


Howk. To dig 


Lane. Lone, lane, thy lane. &c 


Howkit. Digged 


Laverock. The lark 


Hoyse. To pull upwards 


Leal. Loyal, true, faithful 


Hoyte. To amble crazily 
Hughoc. Diminutive of Hugh 


Leeze me. I am happy in thee 


Lilt. A ballad, to tune 


Hurcheon. A hedgehog 


Lift. Sky 


Hurdles. The loins 


Limmer. A kept mistress 




Linn. A waterfall 


I. 


Lintwhite, Untie. A linnet 


Icker. An ear of corn 


Loan. The place of milking 


ler-oe. A great-grandchild 


Loot". The palm of the hand 


Ingine. Genius, j ingenuity 


Loot. Did let 


Ingle. Fire, firfl- place 


Looves. The plural of loaf 


J- 


Lum. The chimney 


Lnnt. A column of smoke 


Jauk. To dally, to trifle 


Luntin', Smoking 


Jaukin'. Trifling, dallying 


Lyart. Of a mixed colour 


Jaup. A jerk of water 


M. 


Jaupit. Soiled with mud 


Jillet. A giddy girl, a jilt 


Maun. Must 


Jink. To dodge 


Melvie. To soil with meal 


Jocteleg. A kind of knife 


Mouse. Good manners 


Jouk. To stoop 


Merle. The blackbird 


Jow. To jow; a verb which 


Messin. A small dog 


includes motioi and pealing' 


Midden. A dunghill 


sound of a large bell 


Mim. Prim, affectedly, meek 


Jamlie. Muddy 


Mislear'd. Mischievous 


Jundie. To justlo 


Moop. To nibble as a sheep 


K 


N. 


Kae A daw 


Nappy. Brisk ale, to be tipe-y 


Kail. A kiw] of broth 


Niffer. A n exchange, to barter 


Kaii-ruut. Stem of colewort 


Nit. A nut. 



GLOSSARY. 493 




0. 


Rung. A cudgel 




Ourie. Sliivering, il rooming 


Runt. Stem of a cabbage 




Outlci-s. Cattle not housed 


S. 




Uwre, Ovro, Uo 


Sark. Shirt 


.' 


P. 


Saugh. Willow 




Paiiv:li. Paunch 


Saumont. Salmon 




Paitrick. A partridge 


Scone. A. thin cake of bread 




Pang. To cram 


Screed. A rent, to tear 




Pauk3\ Cunniuij, sly 


vScrievc. To glide swiftly 




Pech. To fetch tlie 1 )reath short 


Scrimp. To scamp 




Pechan. The crop, the stomach 


Scunner. To loathe 




Pine. Pain, uneasiness 


Shaird. A shrod 




Placad. Public proclamation 


Shcugh. A ditch, {^ sluice 




Plackless. Penniless 


Shog. To push off on one side 




Pliskie. A trick 


Shool. A shovel 




Poussie. A hare, or v.\i 


Shore. To threaten 




Preen. A pin 


Skellum. A worthless fellow 




Prcnt. Printing 


Skolp. To strike, to slap, to 




Prie. To taste 


walk with a trijjping step 




Priggin'. Cheapening 


Skeigh. Proud, high-mettled 




I'limsie. Demure, precise 


Skirling. Shrieking, crj'ing 




Provoses. Provosts 


Sklent. Slant, to run aslant 
Skreigh. To scream 




Q. 


Slee. Sly, sleest, slyest 




Quat. To quit 


Sleekit. Sleek, sly 




Qaak. To quake 


Sliddery. Slippery 




R. 


Smeddum. Dnst, powder 




Smoor. To smother 




Raihla To rattle nonsense 


Snash. Low abuse 




Ramfeezl'd. Fatigued 


Sned. To lop, to cut oflf 




Ram-stam, Thoughtless 


Sneeshin. Snufl" _ 




Ratton. A rat 


Snell. Sharp, biting 




Raucle. Pash. stout, fearless 


Snick. Tlie latchet of a door 




Raught. Reached 


Snoove. To go smoothly 




Rax. To stretch 


Snowk. To scent as a dog 




[{earn. Cream, to cream 


Sonsie. Sweet looks, jolly 




Reaming. Rrimful, frothing 


Soom. To swim 




Reck. To heed 


Souple. Flexible, swift 




Rede. Counsel, to counsel 


Souter. A shoemaker 




Red-xvud. 8tark raad 


Sowp. A spoonful 




Ree. Half tipsy, in high spirlis 


Sowth. To try over a tune 




Reisle. A rousing 


1 Sowtber. Solder, to co\f\ef 




ilpst. To stand restive 


Spae. To prophesy 




Ritf. Reef, plenty 


Spaul. The loin bone 




iiip. Handful of unthrashed 


Spairge. To dash, to soil 




.-orn 


Sp.iviet. Having the spavin 




Ris^Iit. Noise like the tearing 


Speat. A swe( ping torrent 
Speel. '.Ho climb 




of roots 




Roon. A shred 


Si)ence. The parlour in 4 




Rorpit. Ho;ir>e with cold 


country house 




Row. To roll, or wrap 


Spier. To ask, to inquire 




Rowte. To low, to bellow 


Spk'Uihan. A tobacco pouiil 




Kozct. Rosin 


Sprattle. To scramble 

2j4 





494 GXOSSABT. 


Squattle. To sprawl 


Twin. To part 


Stacker. To stagger 


Tyke. A dog 


Strtiunrel. A. blockhead 


w. 


Staw. Did steal, to suifeit 


Sfcecli. To cram the belly 


{ Wair. To lay out, to expend 


Stcek. To shut, a stitch 


Wale. Choice, to choose 


Steer. To molest, to stir 


Wal'd. Chose, chosen 


Stell. A still 


Walie. Ample, large, jolly 


Sten. To ]}ouik1, ov rise 


Wanchansie. Unlucky 


Sten't. Beared 


Wastrie Prodigality 


Steut.s. Dues of any kind 


W^attle. A twig, a wand 


Stey. Steep, steepest 


Wanble. To sing, to reel 


Stick an' Stow. Altogether 


Waukrife. _ Not apt to sleep 


Stinipart^ The eighth part of 


Weet. Rain, wetness 


a Winchester bushel 


Whaizle. To wheeze 


Stirk. A cow a year old 


Wlieep. To fly ninibly 


Stoor. Sounding hollow 


Whid. A lie 


Stoure. Dust in motion 


Whitter. A draught of liqu'j£ 


Stowlins. By stealth 


Whunstane. A whinstane 


Stroan. To spout 


Whyles. Sometimes 


Studdie. An anvil 


Withoutten. Without 


Swaird. Sward 


Wanrestfu'. Restless 


Swat. Did sweat 


W\at. WeL; I wat, I know 


Swatch. A sample 


Wiel. A small whirlpool 


Swats. Drink, good ale 
. Swith. Get away 


Wimple. TomeandfT 
Winze. An oath 
Wiss. To wish 


T. 


Wordy. Worthy 


Tangle. A sea-weed 


Worset. Worsted, 


Tapetless, Heedless, foolisli 


Wrack. To tease, to vex 


Tarry-breeks. A sailor 


Wud. Mad, distracted 


Taupie. A thoughtless girl 


Wumble. A wimble 


Teat. A small quantity 


Wyliecoat. A flannel vest 


Tent. To take heed 


W^yte. Blame, to blame 


Thairms. Small guts 


Y. 


Thraw. To sprain, to twist 


Thud. Loud intermittent noise 


Yearns. Longs much 


line. To lose ; tint, lost 


York. To lash, to jerk 


Tip, A ram. 


Yill. Ale 


Tittle. To whisper 


Yird. Earth 


Tocher. A marriage portion 


Yokin. Yokin, about 


Tod. A fox 


Yont. Beyond 


Toom. Empty 


Yowe. An ewe 


Toun. A hamlet, a farm-house 


Yowie. Diminutive '»f yowe 


Tout. The blast of a horn 


Yule. Christmas 



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